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THE  NOVELS  OF  IVAN  TURGENEV 

ILLUSTRATED     EDITION 


SMOKE 

TRANSLATED  FROM   THE  RUSSIAN 

By 

CONSTANCE  GARNETT 


T,tVN«^ 


NEW  YORK :  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

LONDON:    WILLIAM   HEINEMANN 
MCMVI 


%o 


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^ 


Printed  in  England 


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All  rights  reserved 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

THE  TABLES  AT  BADEN-BADEN,     .  Frontispiece 

MRS.  BEECHER  STOWE,      .         .         .       to  face  page  26 
HEIDELBERG ,,        „  298 


INTRODUCTION 

*  Smoke'  was  first  published  in  1867,  several 
years  after  Turgenev  had  fixed  his  home  in 
Baden,  with  his  friends  the  Viardots.  Baden 
at  this  date  was  a  favourite  resort  for  all  circles 
of  Russian  society,  and  Turgenev  was  able  to 
study  at  his  leisure  his  countrymen  as  they 
appeared  to  foreign  critical  eyes.  The  novel  is 
therefore  the  most  cosmopolitan  of  all  Tur- 
genev's  works.  On  a  veiled  background  of  the 
great  world  of  European  society,  little  groups 
of  representative  Russians,  members  of  the 
aristocratic  and  the  Young  Russia  parties,  are 
etched  with  an  incisive,  unfaltering  hand. 
Smoke,  as  an  historical  study,  though  it  yields 
in  importance  to  Fathers  and  Children  and 
Virgin  Soil,  is  of  great  significance  to  Russians. 
It  might  with  truth  have  been  named  Transi- 
tion, for  the  generation  it  paints  was  then  mid- 
way between  the  early  philosophical  Nihilism 


SMOKE 

of  the  sixties  and  the  active  political  Nihilism 
of  the  seventies. 

Markedly  transitional,  however,  as  was  the 
Russian  mind  of  the  days  of  Smoke^  Turgenev, 
with  the  faculty  that  distinguishes  the  great 
artist  from  the  artist  of  second  rank,  the  faculty 
of  seeking  out  and  stamping  the  essential  under 
confused  and  fleeting  forms,  has  once  and  for 
ever  laid  bare  the  fundamental  weakness  of  the 
Slav  nature,  its  weakness  of  will.  Smoke  is  an 
attack,  a  deserved  attack,  not  merely  on  the 
Young  Russia  Party,  but  on  all  the  Parties  ;  not 
on  the  old  ideas  or  the  new  ideas,  but  on  the 
proneness  of  the  Slav  nature  to  fall  a  prey  to 
a  consuming  weakness,  a  moral  stagnation,  a 
feverish  ennui^  the  Slav__nature  that  analyses 
everything  with  force  and  brilliancy,  and  ends, 
so  often,  by  doing  nothing.  Smoke  is  the  attack, 
bitter  yet  sympathetic,  of  a  man  who,  with  grow- 
ing despair,  has  watched  the  weakness  of  his 
countrymen,  while  he  loves  his  country  all  the 
more  for  the  bitterness  their  sins  have  brought 
upon  it.  Smoke  is  the  scourging  of  a  babbling 
generation,  by  a  man  who,  grown  sick  to  death 
of  the  chatter  of  reformers  and  reactionists,  is 
visiting  the  sins  of  the  fathers  on  the  children, 

vi 


INTRODUCTION 

With  a  contempt  out  of  patience  for  the  heredi- 
tary vice  in  the  Slav  blood.  And  this  time  the 
author  cannot  be  accused  of  partisanship  by  any 
blunderer.  '  A  plague  o'  both  your  houses/  is 
his  message  equally  to  the  Bureaucrats  and  the 
Revolutionists.  And  so  skilfully  does  he  wield 
the  thong,  that  every  lash  falls  on  the  back  of 
both  parties.  An  exquisite  piece  of  political 
satire  is  Smoke ;  for  this  reason  alone  it  would 
stand  unique  among  novels. 

The  success  of  Smoke  was  immediate  and 
great ;  but  the  hue-and-cry  that  assailed  it  was 
even  greater.  The  publication  of  the  book 
marks  the  final  rupture  between  Turgenev 
and  the  party  of  Young  Russia.  The  younger 
generation  never  forgave  him  for  drawing  Gubar- 
yov  and  Bambaev,  Voroshilov  and  Madame 
Suhantchikov — types,  indeed,  in  which  all 
revolutionary  or  unorthodox  parties  are  pain- 
fully rich.  Or,  perhaps,  Turgenev  was  forgiven 
for  it  when  he  was  in  his  grave,  a  spot  where 
forgiveness  flowers  to  a  late  perfection.  And 
yet  the  fault  was  not  Turgenev's.  No,  his  last 
novel,  Virgin  Soil,  bears  splendid  witness  that  it 
was  Young  Russia  that  was  one-eyed. 

Let  the  plain  truth  here  be  set  down.    Smoke 

vii 


SMOKE 

is  not  a  complete  picture  of  the  Young  Russia 
of  the  day ;  it  was  not  yet  time  for  that  picture  ; 
and  that  being  so,  Turgenev  did  the  next  best 
thing  in  attacking  the  windbags,  the  charlatans 
and  their  crowd  of  shallow,  chattering  followers, 
as  well  as  the  empty  formulas  of  the  laissez- 
faire  party.  It  was  inevitable  that  the  attack 
should  bring  on  him  the  anger  of  all  young 
enthusiasts  working  for  *  the  Cause ' ;  it  was  in- 
evitable that  'the  Cause'  of  reform  in  Russia 
should  be  mixed  up  with  the  Gubaryovs,  just  as 
reforms  in  France  a  few  years  ago  were  mixed  up 
with  Boulanger ;  and  that  Turgenev's  waning 
popularity  for  the  last  twenty  years  of  his  life 
should  be  directly  caused  by  his  honesty  and 
clear-sightedness  in  regard  to  Russian  Liberal- 
ism, was  inevitable  also.  To  be  crucified  by 
those  you  have  benefited  is  the  cross  of  honour 
of  all  great,  single-hearted  men. 

But  though  the  bitterness  of  political  life 
flavours  Smoke^  although  its  points  of  departure 
and  arrival  are  wrapped  in  the  atmosphere  of 
Russia's  dark  and  insoluble  problems,  never- 
theless the  two  central  figures  of  the  book, 
Litvinov  and   Irina,  are   not   political    figures. 

Luckily  for  them,  in  Gubaryov's  words,  they 

viii 


INTRODUCTION 

belong  *  to  the  undeveloped.'  Litvinqv  himself 
may  be  dismissed  in  a  sentence.  He  is  Tur- 
genev's  favourite  type  of  man,  a  character  much 
akin  to  his  own  nature,  gentle,  deep,  and  sym- 
pathetic. Turgenev  often  drew  such  a  char- 
acter; Lavretsky,  for  example,  in  A  House  of 
Gentlefolk^  is  a  first  cousin  to  Litvinov,  an  older 
and  a  sadder  man. 

^But  Irina — Irina  is  unique  ;  for  Turgenev  has 
in  her  perfected  her  type  till  she  reaches  a 
destroying  witchery  of  fascination  and  subtlety. 
Irina  will  stand  for  ever  in  the  long  gallery  of 
great  creations,  smiling  with  that  enigmatical 
smile  which  took  from  Litvinov  in  a  glance 
half  his  life,  and  his  love  for  Tatyana.  The 
special  triumph  of  her  creation  is  that  she  com- 
bines that  exact  balance  between  good  and 
evil  which  makes  good  women  seem  insipid 
beside  her  and  bad  women  unnatural.  And, 
by  nature  irresistible,  she  is  made  doubly  so  to 
the  imagination  by  the  situation  which  she 
recreates  between  Litvinov  and  herself.  She 
ardently  desires  to  become  nobler,  to  possess 
all  that  the  ideal  of  love  means  for  the  heart  of 
woman  ;  but  she  has  only  the  power  given  to 

her  of  enervating  the   man   she   loves.      Can 

ix 


SMOKE 

she  become  a  Tatyana  to  him?  No,  to  no 
man.  She  is  born  to  corrupt,  yet  never  to  be 
corrupted.  She  rises  mistress  of  herself  after 
the  first  measure  of  fatal  delight.  And,  never 
giving  her  whole  heart  absolutely  to  her  lover, 
she,  nevertheless,  remains  ever  to  be  desired. 

Further,  her  wit,  her  scorn,  her  beauty  pre- 
serve her  from  all  the  influences  of  evil  she  does 
not  deliberately  employ.  Such  a  woman  is  as 
old  and  as  rare  a  type  as  Helen  of  Troy.  It  is 
most  often  found  among  the  great  mistresses 
of  princes,  and  it  was  from  a  mistress  of 
Alexander  II.  that  Turgenev  modelled  Irina. 
,  Of  the  minor  characters,  Tatyana  is  an 
astonishing  instance  of  Turgenev's  skill  in 
drawing  a  complete  character  with  half-a-dozen 
strokes  of  the  pen.  The  reader  seems  to  have 
known  her  intimately  all  his  life  :  her  family  life, 
her  girlhood,  her  goodness  and  individual  ways 
to  the  smallest  detail ;  yet  she  only  speaks  on 
two  or  three  occasions.  Potugin  is  but  a  weary 
shadow  of  Litvinov,  but  it  is  difficult  to  say 
how  much  this  is  a  telling  refinement  of  art. 
The  shadow  of  this  prematurely  exhausted 
man  is  cast  beforehand  by  Irina  across  Lit- 
vinov's  future.     For  Turgenev  to  have  drawn 


INTRODUCTION 

Potugin  as  an  ordinary  individual  would  have 
vulgarised  the  novel  and  robbed  it  of  its  skil- 
ful proportions,  for  Potugin  is  one  of  those 
shadowy  figures  which  supply  the  chiaroscuro 
to  a  brilliant  etching. 

As  a  triumphant  example  of  consummate 
technical  skill,  Smoke  will  repay  the  most  exact 
scrutiny.  There  are  a  lightness  and  a  grace 
about  the  novel  that  conceal  its  actual  strength. 
The  political  argument  glides  with  such  ease  in 
and  out  of  the  love  story,  that  the  hostile  critic 
is  absolutely  baffled ;  and  while  the  most  intri- 
cate steps  are  executed  in  the  face  of  a  crowd 
of  angry  enemies,  the  performer  lands  smiling 
and  in  safety.  The  art  by  which  Irina's  dis- 
astrous fascination  results  in  falsity,  and  Lit- 
vinov's  desperate  striving  after  sincerity  ends 
in  rehabilitation, — the  art  by  which  these  two 
threads  are  spun,  till  their  meaning  colours  the 
faint  political  message  of  the  book,  is  so  delicate 
that,  like  the  silken  webs  which  gleam  only  for 
the  first  fresh  hours  in  the  forest,  it  leaves  no 
trace,  but  becomes  a  dream  in  the  memory. 
And  yet  this  book,  which  has  the  freshness  of 
windy  rain  and  the  whirling  of  autumn  leaves, 

is   a   story   of    ignominious   weakness,   of  the 

xi 


SMOKE 

passion  that  kills,  that  degrades,  that  renders 
life  despicable,  as  Turgenev  himself  says. 
Smoke  is  the  finest  example  in  literature  of 
a  subjective  psychological  study  of  passion 
rendered  clearly  and  objectively  in  terms  of 
French  art.  Its  character,  we  will  not  say 
its  superiority,  lies  in  the  extraordinary  clear- 
ness with  which  the  most  obscure  mental 
phenomena  are  analysed  in  relation  to  the 
ordinary  values  of  daily  life.  At  the  precise 
point  of  psychological  analysis  where  Tolstoi 
wanders  and  does  not  convince  the  reader,  and 
at  the  precise  point  where  Dostoievsky's  analy- 
sis seems  exaggerated  and  obscure,  like  a  figure 
looming  through  the  mist,  Turgenev  throws  a 
ray  of  light  from  the  outer  to  the  inner  world 
of  man,  and  the  two  worlds  are  revealed  in  the 
natural  depths  of  their  connection.  It  is  in  fact 
difficult  to  find  among  the  great  modern  artists 
men  whose  natural  balance  of  intellect  can 
be  said  to  equalise  their  special  genius.  The 
Greeks  alone  present  to  the  world  a  spectacle 
of  a  triumphant  harmony  in  the  critical  and 
creative  mind  of  man,  and  this  is  their  great 
pre-eminence.     But  Smoke  presents  the  curious 

feature  of  a  novel  (Slav  in  virtue  of  its  modern 

xii 


INTRODUCTION 

psychological  genius)  which  is  classical  in  its 
treatment  and  expression  throughout :  the  bal- 
ance of  Turgenev's  intellect  reigns  ever  supreme 
over  the  natural  morbidity  of  his  subject. 

And  thus  Smoke  in  every  sense  of  the  word 
is  a  classic  for  all  time. 

EDV^ARD  GARNETT. 

January  1896. 


••• 
3011 


THE  NAMES  OF  THE  CHARACTERS  IN 
THE  BOOK 

Grig6ry  IGriska]  Mihalovitch  LitvInov 
Tat-yana  [Tduya]  Petr6vna  Shest6v. 
Kapitolina  Markovna. 

ROSTISLAV  BaMBAEV. 

SeMy6n  YaKOVLEVITCH  VOROSHfLOV. 

Stefan  Nikolaevitch  Gubar-y6v. 
Matr6na  Semy6novna  Suhantchikov. 
Tit  Bindasov. 

PiSH-TCHALKIN. 

Soz6nt  Ivanitch  Potugin. 

Irina  Pavlovna  Osinin. 

Valerian  VladImirovitch  RATMfROV. 


In  transcribing  the  Russian  names  into  English —    j/ 
a  has  the  sound  of  a  va  father 
e        „  „  a  in  pane, 

I        ,,  ),  ee, 

u  ,,  „  00. 

y  is  always  consonantal  except  when  it  is 

the  last  letter  of  the  word. 
g  is  always  hard. 


ytt 


On  the  1 0th  of  August  1862,  at  four  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon,  a  great  number  of  people  were 
thronging  before  the  well-known  Konversation 
in  Baden-Baden.  The  weather  was  lovely ; 
everything  around — the  green  trees,  the  bright 
houses  of  the  gay  city,  and  the  undulating 
outline  of  the  mountains — everything  was  in 
holiday  mood,  basking  in  the  rays  of  the 
kindly  sunshine ;  everything  seemed  smiling 
with  a  sort  of  blind,  confiding  delight ;  and  the 
same  glad,  vague  smile  strayed  over  the  human 
faces  too,  old  and  young,  ugly  and  beautiful 
alike.  Even  the  blackened  and  whitened 
visages  of  the  Parisian  demi-monde  could  not 
destroy  the  general  impression  of  bright  con- 
tent and  elation,  while  their  many-coloured 
ribbons  and  feathers  and  the  sparks  of  gold 
and  steel  on  their  hats  and  veils  involuntarily 
recalled  the  intensified  brilliance  and  light 
fluttering  of  birds  in  spring,  with  their  rain- 
bow-tinted wings.     But  the  dry,  guttural  snap- 

I  A 


SMOKE 

ping  of  the  French  jargon,  heard  on  all  sides 
could  not  equal  the  song  of  birds,  nor  be  com- 
pared with  it. 

Everything,  however,  was  going  on  in  its  ac- 
customed way.  The  orchestra  in  the  Pavilion 
played  first  a  medley  from  the  Traviata,  then 
one  of  Strauss's  waltzes,  then  '  Tell  her,'  a 
Russian  song,  adapted  for  instruments  by  an 
obliging  conductor.  In  the  gambling  saloons, 
round  the  green  tables,  crowded  the  same 
familiar  figures,  with  the  same  dull,  greedy, 
half-stupefied,  half-exasperated,  wholly  rapa- 
cious expression,  which  the  gambling  fever 
lends  to  all,  even  the  most  aristocratic,  features. 
The  same  well-fed  and  ultra-fashionably  dressed 
Russian  landowner  from  Tambov  with  wide 
staring  eyes  leaned  over  the  table,  and  with 
uncomprehending  haste,  heedless  of  the  cold 
smiles  of  the  croupiers  themselves,  at  the  very 
instant  of  the  cry  *  ri'efi  ne  va  plus!  laid  with 
perspiring  hand  golden  rings  of  loiiis  d'or  on  all 
the  four  corners  of  the  roulette,  depriving  him- 
self by  so  doing  of  every  possibility  of  gaining 
anything,  even  in  case  of  success.  This  did 
not  in  the  least  prevent  him  the  same  evening 
from  affirming  the  contrary  with  disinterested 
indignation  to  Prince  Kok6,  one  of  the  well- 
known  leaders  of  the  aristocratic  opposition, 
the  Prince  Kok6,  who  in  Paris  at  the  salon 


SMOKE 

of  the  Princess  Mathilde,  so  happily  remarked 
in  the  presence  of  the  Emperor :  *  Madame^ 
le  principe  de  la  propriete  est  profondement 
^branle  en  Rtissie'  At  the  Russian  tree,  a 
rarbre  Russe^  our  dear  fellow-countrymen  and 
countrywomen  were  assembled  after  their  wont. 
They  approached  haughtily  and  carelessly  in 
fashionable  style,  greeted  each  other  with 
dignity  and  elegant  ease,  as  befits  beings  who 
find  themselves  at  the  topmost  pinnacle  of 
contemporary  culture.  But  when  they  had 
met  and  sat  down  together,  they  were  abso- 
lutely at  a  loss  for  anything  to  say  to  one 
another,  and  had  to  be  content  with  a  pitiful 
interchange  of  inanities,  or  with  the  exceedingly 
indecent  and  exceedingly  insipid  old  jokes  of 
a  hopelessly  stale  French  wit,  once  a  journalist, 
a  chattering  buffoon  with  Jewish  shoes  on  his 
paltry  little  legs,  and  a  contemptible  little 
fceard  on  his  mean  little  visage.  He  retailed 
to  them,  a  ces  princes  russes,  all  the  sweet  ab- 
s(urdities  from  the  old  comic  almanacs  Charivari 
and  Tintamarre^  and  they,  ces  princes  russes, 
Iburst  into  grateful  laughter,  as  though  forced 
\x].  spite  of  themselves  to  recognise  the  crush- 
ing superiority  of  foreign  wit,  and  their  own 
hjopeless  incapacity  to  invent  anything  amus- 
ipg.  Yet  here  were  almost  all  the  'finefleur'  of 
our  society,  *  all  the  high-life  and  mirrors   of 

3 


SMOKE 

fashion.'  Here  was  Count  X.,  our  incomparable 
dilettante,  a  profoundly  musical  nature,  who  so 
divinely  recites  songs  on  the  piano,  but  cannot 
in  fact  take  two  notes  correctly  without  fumb- 
ling at  random  on  the  keys,  and  sings  in  a 
style  something  between  that  of  a  poor  gypsy 
singer  and  a  Parisian  hairdresser.  Here  was 
our  enchanting  Baron  Q.,  a  master  in  every 
line  :  literature,  administration,  oratory,  and 
card-sharping.  Here,  too,  was  Prince  Y.,  the 
friend  of  religion  and  the  people,  who  in  the 
blissful  epoch  when  the  spirit-trade  was  a 
monopoly,  had  made  himself  betimes  a  huge 
fortune  by  the  sale  of  vodka  adulterated  with 
belladonna  ;  and  the  brilliant  General  O.  O.,  who 
had  achieved  the  subjugation  of  something,  and 
the  pacification  of  something  else,  and  who 
is  nevertheless  still  a  nonenity,  and  does  not 
know  what  to  do  with  himself.  And  R.  R.  the 
amusing  fat  man,  who  regards  himself  as  a  great 
invalid  and  a  great  wit,  though  he  is,  in  fact,  as 
strong  as  a  bull,  and  as  dull  as  a  post.  .  .  .  This 
R.  R.  is  almost  the  only  man  in  our  day  who 
has  preserved  the  traditions  of  the  dandies  of 
the  forties,  of  the  epoch  of  the  '  Hero  of  our 
Times,'  and  the  Countess  Vorotinsky.  He  has 
preserved,  too,  the  special  gait  with  the  swing 
on  the  heels,  and  le  ciilte  de  la  pose  (it  cannot 
even  be  put  into  words  in   Russian),  the  un- 

4 


SMOKE 

natural  deliberation  of  movement,  the  sleepy 
dignity  of  expression,  the  immovable,  offended- 
looking  countenance,  and  the  habit  of  inter- 
rupting other  people's  remarks  with  a  yawn, 
gazing  at  his  own  finger-nails,  laughing  through 
his  nose,  suddenly  shifting  his  hat  from  the 
back  of  his  head  on  to  his  eyebrows,  etc. 
Here,  too,  were  people  in  government  circles, 
diplomats,  big-wigs  with  European  names, 
men  of  wisdom  and  intellect,  who  imagine 
that  the  Golden  Bull  was  an  edict  of  the 
Pope,  and  that  the  English  poor-tax  is  a 
tax  levied  on  the  poor.  And  here,  too,  were 
the  hot-blooded,  though  tongue-tied,  devotees 
of  the  dmnes  aiix  cajnellias,  young  society 
dandies,  with  superb  partings  down  the  back  of 
their  heads,  and  splendid  drooping  whiskers, 
dressed  in  real  London  costumes,  young  bucks 
whom  one  would  fancy  there  was  nothing  to 
hinder  from  becoming  as  vulgar  as  the  illustri- 
ous French  wit  above  mentioned.  But  no ! 
our  home  products  are  not  in  fashion  it  seems  ; 
and  Countess  S.,  the  celebrated  arbitress  of 
fashion  and  grayid  genre^  by  spiteful  tongues 
nicknamed  *  Queen  of  the  Wasps,'  and  *  Medusa 
in  a  mob-cap,'  prefers,  in  the  absence  of  the 
French  wit,  to  consort  with  the  Italians,  Mol- 
davians, American  spiritualists,  smart  secretaries 
of  foreign  embassies,  and  Germans  of  effeminate, 

5 


SMOKE 

but  prematurely  circumspect,  physiognomy,  of 
whom  the  place  is  full.  ')  The  example  of  the 
Countess  is  followed  by  the  Princess  Babette, 
she  in  whose  arms  Chopin  died  (the  ladies  in 
Europe  in  whose  arms  he  expired  are  to  be 
reckoned  by  thousands) ;  and  the  Princess 
Annette,  who  would  have  been  perfectly  capti- 
vating, if  the  simple  village  washerwoman  had 
not  suddenly  peeped  out  in  her  at  times,  like  a 
smell  of  cabbage  wafted  across  the  most  delicate 
perfume  ;« and  Princess  Pachette,  to  whom  the 
following  mischance  had  occurred  :  her  hus- 
band had  fallen  into  a  good  berth,  and  all  at 
once,  Dieii  salt  pourquoi,  he  had  thrashed  the 
provost  and  stolen  20,000  roubles  of  public 
money  ;  and  the  laughing  Princess  Zizi ;  and  the 
tearful  Princess  Zozo.  They  all  left  their  com- 
patriots on  one  side,  and  were  merciless  in  their 
treatment  of  them.  Let  us  too  leave  them  on 
one  side,  these  charming  ladies,  and  walk  away 
from  the  renowned  tree  near  which  they  sit  in 
such  costly  but  somewhat  tasteless  costumes, 
and  God  grant  them  relief  from  the  boredom 
consuming  them ! 


II 

A  FEW  paces  from  the  *  Russian  tree,'  at  a 
little  table  in  front  of  Weber's  coffee-house, 
there  was  sitting  a  good-looking  man,  about 
thirty,  of  medium  height,  thin  and  dark,  with  a 
manly  and  pleasant  face.  He  sat  bending 
forward  with  both  arms  leaning  on  his  stick, 
with  the  calm  and  simple  air  of  a  man  to  whom 
the  idea  had  not  occurred  that  any  one  would 
notice  him  or  pay  ariy  attention  to  him.  His 
large  expressive  golden-brown  eyes  were  gazing 
deliberately  about  him,  sometimes  screwed  up  to 
keep  the  sunshine  out  of  them,  and  then  watching 
fixedly  some  eccentric  figure  that  passed  by  him 
while  a  childlike  smile  faintly  stirred  his  fine 
moustache  and  lips,  and  his  prominent  short  chin. 
He  wore  a  roomy  coat  of  German  cut,  and  a  soft 
grey  hat  hid  half  of  his  high  forehead.  At  the 
first  glance  he  made  the  impression  of  an  honest, 
sensible,  rather  self-confident  young  man  such  as 
there  are  many  in  the  world.  He  seemed  to 
be  resting  from   prolonged  labours  and  to  be 

7 


SMOKK 

deriving  all  the  more  simple-minded  amuse- 
ment from  the  scene  spread  out  before  him 
because  his  thoughts  were  far  away,  and  be- 
cause they  moved  too,  those  thoughts,  in  a  world 
utterly  unlike  that  which  surrounded  him  at 
the  moment.  He  was  a  Russian  ;  his  name 
was  Grigory  Mihalovitch  Litvinov. 

We  have  to  make  his  acquaintance,  and  so 
it  will  be  well  to  relate  in  a  few  words  his  past, 
which  presents  little  of  much  interest  or  com- 
plexity. 

He  was  the  son  of  an  honest  retired  official 
of  plebeian  extraction,  but  he  was  educated, 
not  as  one  would  naturally  expect,  in  the  town, 
but  in  the  country.  His  mother  was  of  noble 
family,  and  had  been  educated  in  a  govern- 
ment school.  She  was  a  good-natured  and  very 
enthusiastic  creature,  not  devoid  of  character, 
however.  Though  she  was  twenty  years  younger 
than  her  husband,  she  remodelled  him,  as  far  as 
she  could,  drew  him  out  of  the  petty  official 
groove  into  the  landowner's  way  of  life,  and 
softened  and  refined  his  harsh  and  stubborn 
tharacter.  Thanks  to  her,  he  began  to  dress 
with  neatness,  and  to  behave  with  decorum  ; 
he  came  to  respect  learned  men  and  learning, 
though,  of  course,  he  never  took  a  single  book 
in  his  hand ;  he  gave  up  swearing,  and  tried 
in   every   way   not    to   demean    himself.       He 

8 


SMOKE 

even  arrived  at  walking  more  quietly  and  speak- 
ing in  a  subdued  voice,  mostly  of  elevated 
subjects,  which  cost  him  no  small  effort.  *  Ah ! 
they  ought  to  be  flogged,  and  that 's  all  about 
it ! '  he  sometimes  thought  to  himself,  but  aloud 
he  pronounced  :  '  Yes,  yes,  that 's  so  ...  of 
course ;  it  is  a  great  question.'  Litvinov's  mothei 
set  her  household  too  upon  a  European  footing ; 
she  addressed  the  servants  by  the  plural  '  you ' 
instead  of  the  familiar  '  thou,'  and  never  allowed 
any  one  to  gorge  himself  into  a  state  of  lethargy 
at  her  table.  As  regards  the  property  belonging 
to  her,  neither  she  nor  her  husband  was  capable 
of  looking  after  it  at  all.  It  had  been  long 
allowed  to  run  to  waste,  but  there  was  plenty  of 
land,  with  all  sorts  of  useful  appurtenances,  forest- 
lands  and  a  lake,  on  which  there  had  once  stood 
a  factory,  which  had  been  founded  by  a  zealous 
but  unsystematic  owner,  and  had  flourished  in 
the  hands  of  a  scoundrelly  merchant,  and  gone 
utterly  to  ruin  under  the  superintendence  of 
a  conscientious  German  manager.  Madame 
Litvinov  was  contented  so  long  as  she  did  not 
dissipate  her  fortune  or  contract  debts.  Un- 
luckily she  could  not  boast  of  good  health,  and 
she  died  of  consumption  in  the  very  year  that 
her  son  entered  the  Moscow  university.  He  did 
not  complete  his  course  there  owing  to  circum- 
stances of  which  the  reader  will  hear  more  later 

9 


SMOKE 

on,  and  went  back  to  his  provincial  home,  where 
he  idled  away  some  time  without  work  and  with- 
out ties,  almost  without  acquaintances.  Thanks 
to  the  disinclination  for  active  service  of  the  local 
gentry,  who  were,  however,  not  so  much  pene- 
trated by  the  Western  theory  of  the  evils  of 
*  absenteeism,'  as  by  the  home-grown  conviction 
that  '  one's  own  shirt  is  the  nearest  to  one's 
skin,'  he  was  drawn  for  military  service  in  1855, 
and  almost  died  of  typhus  in  the  Crimea,  where 
he  spent  six  months  in  a  mud-hut  on  the  shore 
of  the  Putrid  Sea,  without  ever  seeing  a  single 
ally.  After  that,  he  served,  not  of  course 
without  unpleasant  experiences,  on  the  councils 
of  the  nobility,  and  after  being  a  little  time  in 
the  country,  acquired  a  passion  for  farming.  He 
realised  that  his  mother's  property,  under  the 
indolent  and  feeble  management  of  his  infirm 
old  father,  did  not  yield  a  tenth  of  the  revenue 
it  might  yield,  and  that  in  experienced  and 
skilful  hands  it  might  be  converted  into  a  perfect 
gold  mine.  But  he  realised,  too,  that  experience 
and  skill  were  just  what  he  lacked — and  he 
went  abroad  to  study  agriculture  and  technology 
— to  learn  them  from  the  first  rudiments.  More 
than  four  years  he  had  spent  in  Mecklenburg, 
in  Silesia,  and  in  Carlsruhe,  and  he  had  travelled 
in  Belgium  and  in  England.  He  had  worked 
conscientiously  and  accumulated  information ; 

10 


SMOKE 

he  had  not  acquired  it  easily  ;  but  he  had  per- 
severed through  his  difficulties  to  the  end,  and 
now  with  confidence  in  himself,  in  his  future, 
and  in  his  usefulness  to  his  neighbours,  perhaps 
even  to  the  whole  countryside,  he  was  prepar- 
ing to  return  home,  where  he  was  summoned 
with  despairing  prayers  and  entreaties  in  every 
letter  from  his  father,  now  completely  bewildered 
by  the  emancipation,  the  re-division  of  lands, 
and  the  terms  of  redemption — by  the  new 
regime  in  short.     But  why  was  he  in  Baden  ? 

Well,  he  was  in  Baden  because  he  was  from 
day  to  day  expecting  the  arrival  there  of  his 
cousin  and  betrothed, Tatyana  Petrovna  Shestov. 
He  had  known  her  almost  from  childhood,  and 
had  spent  the  spring  and  summer  with  her  at 
Dresden,  where  she  was  living  with  her  aunt. 
He  felt  sincere  love  and  profound  respect  for 
his  young  kinswoman,  and  on  the  conclusion  of 
his  dull  preparatory  labours,  when  he  was  pre- 
paring to  enter  on  a  new  field,  to  begin  real, 
unofficial  duties,  he  proposed  to  her  as  a  woman 
dearly  loved,  a  comrade  and  a  friend,  to  unite 
her  life  with  his — for  happiness  and  for  sorrow, 
for  labour  and  for  rest,  *  for  better,  for  worse  '  as 
the  English  say.  She  had  consented,  and  he 
had  returned  to  Carlsruhe,  where  his  books, 
papers  and  properties  had  been  left.  .  .  ,  But  why 
was  he  at  Baden,  you  ask  again  ? 

II 


SMOKE 

Well,  he  was  at  Baden,  because  Taty ana's 
aunt,  who  had  brought  her  up,  Kapitolina 
MarkovnaShestov,an  old  unmarried  lady  of  fifty- 
five,  a  most  good-natured,  honest,  eccentric  soul, 
a  free  thinker,  all  aglow  with  the  fire  of  self- 
sacrifice  and  abnegation,  an  esprit  fort  (she 
read  Strauss,  it  is  true  she  concealed  the  fact 
from  her  niece)  and  a  democrat,  sworn  opponent 
of  aristocracy  and  fashionable  society,  could 
not  resist  the  temptation  of  gazing  for  once  on 
this  aristocratic  society  in  such  a  fashionable 
place  as  Baden.  .  .  .  Kapitolina  Markovna 
wore  no  crinoline  and  had  her  white  hair  cut 
in  a  round  crop,  but  luxury  and  splendour  had 
a  secret  fascination  for  her,  and  it  was  her 
favourite  pastime  to  rail  at  them  and  express 
her  contempt  of  them.  How  could  one  refuse 
to  gratify  the  good  old  lady  ?  But  Litvinov 
was  so  quiet  and  simple,  he  gazed  so  self-con- 
fidently  about  him,  because  his  life  lay  so  clearly 
mapped  out  before  him,  because  his  career  was 
defined,  and  because  he  was  proud  of  this  career, 
and  rejoiced  in  it  as  the  work  of  his  own  hands. 


12 


Ill 

'Hullo!  hullo!  here  he  is!*  he  suddenly 
heard  a  squeaky  voice  just  above  his  ear,  and 
a  plump  hand  slapped  him  on  the  shoulder. 
He  lifted  his  head,  and  perceived  one  of  his  few 
Moscow  acquaintances,  a  certain  Bambaev,  a 
good-natured  but  good-for-nothing  fellow.  He 
was  no  longer  young,  he  had  a  flabby  nose  and 
soft  cheeks,  that  looked  as  if  they  had  been 
boiled,  dishevelled  greasy  locks,  and  a  fat 
squat  person.  Everlastingly  short  of  cash, 
and  everlastingly  in  raptures  over  something, 
Rostislav  Bambaev  wandered,  aimless  but  ex- 
clamatory, over  the  face  of  our  long-suffering 
mother- earth. 

*  Well,  this  is  something  like  a  meeting  1 '  he 
repeated,  opening  wide  his  sunken  eyes,  and 
drawing  down  his  thick  lips,  over  which  the 
straggling  dyed  moustaches  seemed  strangely 
out  of  place.  *  Ah,  l^.iden  !  All  the  world  runs 
here  like  black-beetles !  How  did  you  come 
here,  Grisha  ? ' 

13 


SMOKE 

There  was  positively  no  one  in  the  world  Bam- 
baev  did  not  address  by  his  Christian  name. 

*  I  came  here  three  days  ago.' 

*  From  where  ?  ' 

'  Why  do  you  ask  ?  ' 

*Why  indeed?  But  stop,  stop  a  minute, 
Grisha.  You  are,  perhaps,  not  aware  who  has 
just  arrived  here  !  Gubaryov  himself,  in  per- 
son !  That 's  who 's  here  !  He  came  yesterday 
from  Heidelberg.     You  know  him  of  course?  ' 

*  I  have  heard  of  him.' 

*  Is  that  all  ?  Upon  my  word  !  At  once,  this 
very  minute  we  will  haul  you  along  to  him.  Not 
know  a  man  like  that !  And  by  the  way  here  's 
Voroshilov.  .  .  .  Stop  a  minute,  Grisha,  perhaps 
you  don't  know  him  either  ?  I  have  the  honour 
to  present  you  to  one  another.  Both  learned 
men  !  He 's  a  phoenix  indeed  !  Kiss  each 
other  1 ' 

And  uttering  these  words,  Bambaev  turned 
to  a  good-looking  young  man  standing  near  him 
with  a  fresh  and  rosy,  but  prematurely  demure 
face.  Litvinov  got  up,  and,  it  need  hardly  be 
said,  did  not  kiss  him,  but  exchanged  a  cursory 
bow  with  the  phoenix,  who,  to  judge  from  the 
severity  of  his  demeanour,  was  not  overpleased 
at  this  unexpected  introduction. 

*  I  said  a  phoenix,  and  I  will  not  go  back 
from    my  word,'   continued  Bambaev  ;   *  go  to 

14 


SMOKE 

Petersburg,  to  the  military  school,  and  look  at 
the  golden  board ;  whose  name  stands  first  there  ? 
The  name  of  Voroshilov,  Semyon  Yakovlevitch  ! 
But,  Gubaryov,  Gubaryov,  my  dear  fellow! 
It 's  to  him  we  must  fly  !  I  absolutely  worship 
that  man  !  And  I  'm  not  alone,  every  one  's  at 
his  feet !     Ah,  what  a  work  he  is  writing,  O — O 

v_/  •    •    •    • 

'  What  is  his  work  about  ? '  inquired  Litvinov. 

'  About  everything,  my  dear  boy,  after  the 
style  of  Buckle,  you  know  .  .  .  but  more  pro- 
found, more  profound.  .  .  .  Everything  will  be 
solved  and  made  clear  in  it  ?  ' 

*  And  have  you  read  this  work  yourself?' 

'  No,  I  have  not  read  it,  and  indeed  it 's  a 
secret,  which  must  not  be  spread  about ;  but  from 
Gubaryov  one  may  expect  everything,  every- 
thing !  Yes  ! '  Bambaev  sighed  and  clasped  his 
hands.  '  Ah,  if  we  had  two  or  three  intellects  like 
that  growing  up  in  Russia,  ah,  what  mightn't 
we  see  then,  my  God !  I  tell  you  one  thing, 
Grisha ;  whatever  pursuit  you  may  have  been 
engaged  in  in  these  latter  days — and  I  don't  even 
know  what  your  pursuits  are  in  general — what- 
ever your  convictions  may  be — I  don't  know 
them  either — from  him,  Gubaryov,  you  will 
find  something  to  learn.  Unluckily,  he  is  not 
here  for  long.  We  must  make  the  most  of  him 
we  must  go.     To  him,  to  him  1 

IS 


SMOKE 

A  passing  dandy  with  reddish  curls  and  a  blue 
ribbon  on  his  low  hat,  turned  round  and  stared 
through  his  eyeglass  with  a  sarcastic  smile  at 
Bambaev.    Litvinov  felt  irritated. 

'What  are  you  shouting  for?'  he  said  ;  'one 
would  think  you  were  hallooing  dogs  on  at  a 
hunt !     I  have  not  had  dinner  yet' 

'  Well,  think  of  that !  we  can  go  at  once  to 
Weber's  .  .  .  the  three  of  us  .  .  .  capital!  You 
have  the  cash  to  pay  for  me?'  he  added  in  an 
undertone. 

*  Yes,  yes  ;  only,  I  really  don't  know * 

*  Leave  off,  please ;  you  will  thank  me  for  it, 
and  he  will  be  delighted.  Ah,  heavens !  * 
Bambaev  interrupted  himself.  *It's  the  finale 
from  Ernani  they  're  playing.  How  delicious  ! . . . 
A  som  .  .  .  mo  Carlo.  .  .  .  What  a  fellow  I  am, 
though !  In  tears  in  a  minute.  Well,  Semyon 
Yakovlevitch  !  Voroshilov  !  shall  we  go,  eh  ? ' 

Voroshilov,  who  had  remained  all  the  while 
standing  with  immovable  propriety,  still  main- 
taining his  former  haughty  dignity  of  de- 
meanour, dropped  his  eyes  expressively,  frowned, 
and  muttered  something  between  his  teeth  .  . , 
But  he  did  not  refuse ;  and  Litvinov  thought, 
*  Well,  we  may  as  well  do  it,  as  I  Ve  plenty 
of  time  on  my  hands.'  Bambaev  took"  his 
arm,  but  before  turning  towards  the  caf^  he 
beckoned  to  Isabella  the  t-enowned  flower-girl  of 


SMOKE 

the  Jockey  Club  :  he  had  conceived  the  idea  of 
buying  a  bunch  of  flowers  of  her.  But  the 
aristocratic  flower-girl  did  not  stir  ;  and,  indeed, 
what  should  induce  her  to  approach  a  gentle- 
man without  gloves,  in  a  soiled  fustian  jacket, 
streaky  cravat,  and  boots  trodden  down  at 
heel,  whom  she  had  not  even  seen  in  Paris? 
Then  Voroshilov  in  his  turn  beckoned  to  her. 
To  him  she  responded,  and  he,  taking  a  tiny 
bunch  of  violets  from  her  basket,  flung  her  a 
florin.  He  thought  to  astonish  her  by  his 
munificence,  but  not  an  eyelash  on  her  face 
quivered,  and  when  he  had  turned  away,  she 
pursed  up  her  mouth  contemptuously.  Vor- 
oshilov was  dressed  very  fashionably,  even 
exquisitely,  but  the  experienced  eye  of  the 
Parisian  girl  noted  at  once  in  his  get-up  and  in 
his  bearing,  in  his  very  walk,  which  showed 
traces  of  premature  military  drill,  the  absence 
of  genuine,  pure-blooded  'chic' 

When  they  had  taken  their  seats  in  the 
principal  dining-hall  at  Weber's,  and  ordered 
dinner,  our  friends  fell  into  conversation. 
Bambaev  discoursed  loudly  and  hotly  upon  the 
immense  importance  of  Gubaryov,  but  soon  he 
ceased  speaking,  and,  gasping  and  chewing 
noisily,  drained  off  glass  after  glass.  Voroshilov 
f^  and  drank  little,  and  as  it  were  reluctantly, 
and  after  questioning  Litvinov  as  to  the  nature 

17  B 


SMOKE 

of  his  interests,  fell  to  giving  expression  to 
his  own  opinions  —  not  so  much  on  those 
interests,  as  on  questions  of  various  kinds  in 
general.  .  .  .  All  at  once  he  warmed  up,  and 
set  off  at  a  gallop  like  a  spirited  horse,  boldly 
and  decisively  assigning  to  every  syllable,  every 
letter,  its  due  weight,  like  a  confident  cadet  going 
up  for  his  *  final '  examination,  with  vehement, 
but  inappropriate  gestures.  At  every  instant, 
since  no  one  interrupted  him,  he  became  more 
eloquent,  more  emphatic  ;  it  seemed  as  though 
he  were  reading  a  dissertation  or  lecture.  The 
names  of  the  most  recent  scientific  authorities — 
with  the  addition  of  the  dates  of  the  birth  or  death 
of  each  of  them — the  titles  of  pamphlets  that  had 
only  just  appeared,  and  names,  names,  names 
,  .  .  fell  in  showers  together  from  his  tongue, 
affording  himself  intense  satisfaction,  reflected 
in  his  glowing  eyes.  Voroshilov,  seemingly, 
despised  everything  old,  and  attached  value 
only  to  the  cream  of  culture,  the  latest,  most 
advanced  points  of  science;  to  mention,  how- 
ever inappropriately,  a  book  of  some  Doctor 
Zauerbengel  on  Pennsylvanian  prisons,  or 
yesterday's  articles  in  the  Asiatic  Journal  on 
the  Vedas  and  Puranas  (he  pronounced  it 
Journal  in  the  English  fashion,  though  he 
certainly  did  not  know  English)  was  for  him 
a  real  joy,   a  felicity.      Litvinov  listened  and 

i8  ^ 


SMOKE 

listened  to  him,  and  could  not  make  out  what 
could  be  his  special  line.  At  one  moment  his 
talk  was  of  the  part  played  by  the  Celtic  race 
in  history  ;  then  he  was  carried  away  to  the 
ancient  world,  and  discoursed  upon  the  ^gine- 
tan  marbles,  harangued  with  great  warmth 
on  the  sculptor  living  earlier  than  Phidias, 
Onetas,  who  was,  however,  transformed  by 
him  into  Jonathan,  which  lent  his  whole 
discourse  a  half-Biblical,  half-American  flavour  ; 
then  he  suddenly  bounded  away  to  political 
economy  and  called  Bastiat  a  fool  or  a  block- 
head, '  as  bad  as  Adam  Smith  and  all  the 
physiocrats.'  *  Physiocrats,'  murmured  Bam- 
baev  after  him  .  .  .  '  aristocrats  ?  '  Among 
other  things  Voroshilov  called  forth  an  expres- 
sion of  bewilderment  on  Bambaev's  face  by 
a  criticism,  dropped  casually  in  passing,  of 
Macaulay,  as  an  old-fashioned  writer,  super- 
seded by  modern  historical  science ;  as  for 
Gneist,  he  declared  he  need  scarcely  refer  to 
him,  and  he  shrugged  his  shoulders.  Bambaev 
shrugged  his  shoulders  too.  '  And  all  this  at 
once,  without  any  inducement,  before  strangers, 
in  a  cafe' — Litvinov  reflected,  looking  at  the 
fair  hair,  clear  eyes,  and  white  teeth  of  his 
new  acquaintance  (he  was  specially  embarrassed 
by  those  large  sugar-white  teeth,  and  those 
hands   with  their  inappropriate  gesticulations), 

19 


SMOKE 

*and  he  doesn't  once  smile  ;  and  with  it  all,  he 
would  seem  to  be  a  nice  lad,  and  absolutely 
inexperienced.'  Voroshilov  began  to  calm  down 
at  last,  his  voice,  youthfully  resonant  and  shrill 
as  a  young  cock's,  broke  a  little  .  .  .  Bambaev 
seized  the  opportunity  to  declaim  verses  and 
again  nearly  burst  into  tears,  which  scandalised 
one  table  near  them,  round  which  was  seated 
an  English  family,  and  set  another  tittering  ; 
two  Parisian  cocottes  were  dining  at  this  second 
table  with  a  creature  who  resembled  an  ancient 
baby  in  a  wig.  The  waiter  brought  the  bill ; 
the  friends  paid  it 

*  Well,'  cried  Bambaev,  getting  heavily  up 
from  his  chair,  '  now  for  a  cup  of  coffee,  and 
quick  march.  There  she  is,  our  Russia,'  he 
added,  stopping  in  the  doorway,  and  pointing 
almost  rapturously  with  his  soft  red  hand  to 
Voroshilov  and  Litvinov.  .  .  .  '  What  do  you 
think  of  her  ?  .  .  .  * 

*  Russia,  indeed,'  thought  Litvinov ;  and 
Voroshilov,  whose  face  had  by  now  regained  its 
concentrated  expression,  again  smiled  conde- 
scendingly, and  gave  a  little  tap  with  his  heels. 

Within  five  minutes  they  were  all  three  mount- 
ing the  stairs  of  the  hotel  where  Stepan  Nikol- 
aitch  Gubaryov  was  staying.  ...  A  tall  slender 
lady,  in  a  hat  with  a  short  black  veil,  was 
coming    quickly    down    the     same    staircase. 

20 


SMOKE 

Catching  sight  of  Litvinov  she  turned  suddenly 
round  to  him,  and  stopped  still  as  though 
struck  by  amazement.  Her  face  flushed 
instantaneously,  and  then  as  quickly  grew  pale 
under  its  thick  lace  veil  ;  but  Litvinov  did 
not  observe  her,  and  the  lady  ran  down  the 
wide  steps  more  quickly  than  before. 


31 


IV 

'Grigory  Litvinov,  a  brick,  a  true  Russian 
heart.  I  commend  him  to  you,'  cried  Bambaev, 
conducting  Litvinov  up  to  a  short  man  of 
the  figure  of  a  country  gentleman,  with  an 
unbuttoned  collar,  in  a  short  jacket,  grey  morn- 
ing trousers  and  slippers,  standing  in  the 
middle  of  a  light,  and  very  well-furnished  room  ; 
'and  this,'  he  added,  addressing  himself  to 
Litvinov, '  is  he,  the  man  himself,  do  you  under- 
stand ?  Gubaryov,  then,  in  a  word.' 

Litvinov  stared  with  curiosity  at  '  the  man 
himself  He  did  not  at  first  sight  find  in  him 
anything  out  of  the  common.  He  saw  before 
him  a  gentleman  of  respectable,  somewhat  dull 
exterior,  with  a  broad  forehead,  large  eyes,  full 
lips,  a  big  beard,  and  a  thick  neck,  with  a 
fixed  gaze,  bent  sidelong  and  downwards. 
This  gentleman  simpered,  and  said,  '  Mmm.  . .  . 
ah  .  .  .  very  pleased,  .  .  Z  raised  his  hand  to 
his  own  face,  and  at  once  turning  his  back 
on  Litvinov,  took  a  few  paces  upon  the  carpet, 

22 


SMOKE 

with  a  slow  and  peculiar  shuffle,  as  though  he 
were  trying  to  slink  along  unseen.  Gubaryov 
had  the  habit  of  continually  walking  up  and 
down,  and  constantly  plucking  and  combing 
his  beard  with  the  tips  of  his  long  hard  nails. 
Besides  Gubaryov,  there  was  also  in  the  room 
a  lady  of  about  fifty,  in  a  shabby  silk  dress, 
with  an  excessively  mobile  face  almost  as 
yellow  as  a  lemon,  a  little  black  moustache  on 
her  upper  lip,  and  eyes  which  moved  so  quickly 
that  they  seemed  as  though  they  were  jumping 
out  of  her  head;  there  was  too  a  broad-shouldered 
man  sitting  bent  up  in  a  corner. 

'Well,  honoured  Matrona  Semyonovna/ 
began  Gubaryov,  turning  to  the  lady,  and 
apparently  not  considering  it  necessary  to 
introduce  Litvinov  to  her,  '  what  was  it  you 
were  beginning  to  tell  us  ? ' 

The  lady  (her  name  was  Matrona  Semyon- 
ovna Suhantchikov — she  was  a  widow,  childless, 
and  not  rich,  and  had  been  travelling  from 
country  to  country  for  two  years  past)  began 
with  peculiar  exasperated  vehemence  : 

'  Well,  so  he  appears  before  the  prince  and 
says  to  him  :  "  Your  Excellency,"  he  says,  "  in 
such  an  office  and  such  a  position  as  yours, 
what  will  it  cost  you  to  alleviate  my  lot? 
You,"  he  says,  "cannot  but  respect  the  purity 
of  my  ideas  1     And  is  it  possible,"  he  says,  "  in 

23 


SMOKE 

these  days  to  persecute  a  man  for  his  ideas  ? " 
And  what  do  you  suppose  the  prince  did,  that 
cultivated  dignitary  in  that  exalted  position? '  " 

'  Why,  what  did  he  do  ? '  observed  Gubaryov, 
lighting  a  cigarette  with  a  meditative  air. 

The  lady  drew  herself  up  and  held  out  her 
bony  right  hand,  with  the  first  finger  separated 
from  the  rest. 

'  He  called  his  groom  and  said  to  him,  "  Take 
off  that  man's  coat  at  once,  and  keep  it  your- 
self.    I  make  you  a  present  of  that  coat !  " ' 

'  And  did  the  groom  take  it  ? '  asked  Bambaev, 
throwing  up  his  arms. 

'  He  took  it  and  kept  it.  And  that  was  done 
by  Prince  Barnaulov,  the  well-known  rich 
grandee,  invested  with  special  powers,  the  re- 
presentative of  the  government.  What  is  one 
to  expect  after  that ! ' 

The  whole  frail  person  of  Madame  Suhant- 
chikov  was  shaking  with  indignation,  spasms 
passed  over  her  face,  her  withered  bosom  was 
heaving  convulsively  under  her  flat  corset  ;  of 
her  eyes  it  is  needless  to  speak,  they  were 
fairly  leaping  out  of  her  head.  But  then  they 
were  always  leaping,  whatever  she  might  be 
talking  about. 

*  A  crying  shame,  a  crying  shame ! '  cried 
Bambaev.  *  No  punishment  could  be  bad 
enough  1  * 

24 


SMOKE 

'  Mmm.  .  .  .  Mmm.  .  .  .  From  top  to  bottom 
it 's  all  rotten,'  observed  Gubaryov,  without 
raising  his  voice,  however.  In  that  case  punish- 
ment is  not  .  .  .  that  needs  .  .  .  other  measures.' 

*  But  is  it  really  true  ? '  commented  Litvinov. 

*  Is  it  true  ? '  broke  in  Madame  Suhantchikov. 
*  Why,  that  one  can't  even  dream  of  doubting 
.  .  .  can't  even  d — d — d — ream  of  it.'  She  pro- 
nounced these  words  with  such  energy  that  she 
was  fairly  shaking  with  the  effort.  *  I  was  told 
of  that  by  a  very  trustworthy  man.  And  you, 
Stepan  Nikolaitch,  know  him  —  Elistratov, 
Kapiton.  He  heard  it  himself  from  eyewit- 
nesses, spectators  of  this  disgraceful  scene.' 

'What  Elistratov  } '  inquired  Gubaryov.  'The 
one  who  was  in  Kazan  ? ' 

'  Yes.  I  know,  Stepan  Nikolaitch,  a  rumour 
was  spread  about  him  that  he  took  bribes  there 
from  some  contractors  or  distillers.  But  then 
who  is  it  says  so  ?  Pelikanov  1  And  how  can  one 
believe  Pelikanov,  when  every  one  knows  he  is 
simply — a  spy  ! ' 

'  No,  with  your  permission,  Matrona  Sem- 
yonovna,'  interposed  Bambaev,  '  I  am  friends 
with  Pelikanov,  he  is  not  a  spy  at  all.* 

'  Yes,  yes,  that 's  just  what  he  is,  a  spy  ! ' 

*  But  wait  a  minute,  kindly ' 

*  A  spy,  a  spy ! '  shrieked  Madame  Suhant- 
chikov, 


SMOKE 

*  No,  no,  one  minute,  I  tell  you  what,*  shrieked 
Bambaev  in  his  turn. 

*A  spy,  a  spy,'  persisted  Madame  Suhant- 
chikov. 

'  No,  no  !  There  's  Tentelyev  now,  that 's  a 
different  matter,'  roared  Bambaev  with  all  the 
force  of  his  lungs. 

Madame  Suhantchikov  was  silent  for  a 
moment. 

*  I  know  for  a  fact  about  that  gentleman,'  he 
continued  in  his  ordinary  voice,  '  that  when  he 
was  summoned  before  the  secret  police,  he 
grovelled  at  the  feet  of  the  Countess  Blazen- 
krampff  and  kept  whining,  "  Save  me,  intercede 
for  me ! "  But  Pelikanov  never  demeaned 
himself  to  baseness  like  that/ 

*  Mm.  .  .  .  Tentelyev  .  .  .'  muttered  Gubar- 
yov,  '  that  .  .  .  that  ought  to  be  noted.' 

Madame  Suhantchikov  shrugged  her  shoul- 
ders contemptuously. 

*  They 're  one  worse  than  another,'  she  said, 
'  but  I  know  a  still  better  story  about  Tentelyev. 
He  was,  as  every  one  knows,  a  most  horrible 
despot  with  his  serfs,  though  he  gave  himself 
out  for  an  emancipator.  Well,  he  was  once  at 
some  friend's  house  in  Paris,  and  suddenly  in 
comes  Madame  Beecher  Stowe — you  know, 
Uncle  Tom's  Cabin.  Tentelyev,  who's  an  awfully 
pushing  fellow,  began  asking  the  host  to  present 
him  ;  but  directly  she  heard  his  name.    "  What?" 

26 


'-(■^^e^ 


SMOKE 

she  said,  "  he  presumes  to  be  introduced  to  the 
author  of  Uncle  Tom}''  And  she  gave  him 
a  slap  on  the  cheek  !  "  Go  away  ! "  she  says, 
"  at  once  ! "  And  what  do  you  think  ?  Ten- 
telyev  took  his  hat  and  slunk  away,  pretty 
crestfallen.' 

'  Come,  I  think  that 's  exaggerated,'  observed 
Bambaev.  ' "  Go  away  "  she  certainly  did  say, 
that 's  a  fact,  but  she  didn't  give  him  a  smack  !  * 

'  She  did,  she  did  ! '  repeated  Madam  Suhant- 
chikov  with  convulsive  intensity :  *  I  am  not 
talking  idle  gossip.  And  you  are  friends  with 
men  like  that ! ' 

'  Excuse  me,  excuse  me,  Matrona  Semyon- 
ovna,  I  never  spoke  of  Tentelyev  as  a  friend  of 
mine  ;  I  was  speaking  of  Pelikanov.' 

*Well,  if  it's  not  Tentelyev,  its  another, 
Mihnyov,  for  example.' 

'  What  did  he  do  then  ?  *  asked  Bambaev, 
already  showing  signs  of  alarm. 

'  What  ?  Is  it  possible  you  don't  know  ?  He 
exclaimed  on  the  Poznesensky  Prospect  in  the 
hearing  of  all  the  world  that  all  the  liberals 
ought  to  be  in  prison  ;  and  what 's  more,  an 
old  schoolfellow  came  to  him,  a  poor  man 
of  course,  and  said,  "Can  I  come  to  dinner 
with  you  ? "  And  this  was  his  answer.  "  No, 
impossible ;  I  have  two  counts  dining  with  me 
to-day  .  .  .  get  along  with  you  T" 

27 


SMOKE 

*  But  that 's  slander,  upon  my  word ! '  voci- 
ferated Bambaev. 

'Slander?  .  .  .  slander?  In  the  first  place, 
Prince  Vahrushkin,  who  was  also  dining  at  your 
Mihnyov's ' 

*  Prince  Vahrushkin/  Gubaryov  interpolated 
severely,  '  is  my  cousin  ;  but  I  don't  allow  him 
to  enter  my  house.  ...  So  there  is  no  need 
to  mention  him  even.' 

'-  In  the  second  place/  continued  Madame 
Suhantchikov,  with  a  submissive  nod  in  Gubar- 
yov's  direction,  '  Praskovya  Yakovlevna  told  me 
so  herself.' 

'  You  have  hit  on  a  fine  authority  to  quote  ♦ 
Why,  she  and  Sarkizov  are  the  greatest  scandal- 
mongers going.' 

'  I  beg  your  pardon,  Sarkizov  is  a  liar, 
certainly.  He  filched  the  very  pall  of  brocade 
off  his  dead  father's  coffin.  I  will  never  dispute 
that ;  but  Praskovya  Yakovlovna — there  's  no 
comparison  !  Remember  how  magnanimously 
she  parted  from  her  husband !  But  you,  I 
know,  are  always  ready * 

*Come,  enough,  enough,  Matrona  Semyon- 
ovna,  said  Bambaev,  interrupting  her,  '  let 
us  give  up  this  tittle-tattle,  and  take  a  loftier 
flight.  I  am  not  new  to  the  work,  you 
know.  Have  you  read  M//e.  de  la  Qumtinie  ? 
That 's  something  charming  now !     And  quite 


SMOKE 

in   accord   with   your   principles   at   the   same 
time  ! ' 

*  I  never  read  novels  now,'  was  Madame 
Suhantchikov's  dry  and  sharp  reply. 

'  Why  ? ' 

*  Because  I  have  not  the  time  now  ;  I  have 
no  thoughts  now  but  for  one  thing,  sewing 
machines.' 

*  What  machines  ? '  inquired  Litvinov. 

'  Sewing,  sewing  ;  all  women  ought  to  provide 
themselves  with  sewing-machines,  and  form 
societies ;  in  that  way  they  will  all  be  enabled  to 
earn  their  living,  and  will  become  independent 
at  once.  In  no  other  way  can  they  ever  be 
emancipated.  That  is  an  important,  most 
important  social  question.  I  had  such  an  argu- 
mentaboutit  with  BoleslavStadnitsky.  Boleslav 
Stadnitsky  is  a  marvellous  nature,  but  he  looks 
at  these  things  in  an  awfully  frivolous  spirit. 
He  does  nothing  but  laugh.     Idiot ! ' 

*  All  will  in  their  due  time  be  called  to  account, 
from  all  it  will  be  exacted,'  pronounced  Gubar- 
yov  deliberately,  in  a  tone  half  -  professorial, 
half-prophetic. 

'Yes,  yes,'  repeated  Bambaev,  *it  will  be 
exacted,  precisely  so,  it  will  be  exacted.  But, 
Stepan  Nikolaitch,'  he  added,  dropping  his 
voice,  *  how  goes  the  great  work  ? ' 

*  I  am  collecting  materials,'  replied  Gubaryov, 

29 


SMOKE 

knitting  his  brows;  and,  turning  to  Litvinov, 
whose  head  began  to  swim  from  the  medley  of 
unfamiliar  names,  and  the  frenzy  of  backbiting, 
he  asked  him  what  subjects  he  was  interested 
in. 

Litvinov  satisfied  his  curiosity. 

*  Ah  !  to  be  sure,  the  natural  sciences.  That 
is  useful,  as  training  ;  as  training,  not  as  an  end 
in  itself.  The  end  at  present  should  be  .  .  . 
mm.  .  .  .  should  be  .  .  .  different.  Allow  me 
to  ask  what  views  do  you  hold  ?  ' 

*  What  views  ? ' 

*  Yes,  that  is,  more  accurately  speaking,  what 
are  your  political  views  ?  ' 

Litvinov  smiled. 

'  Strictly  speaking,  I  have  no  political  views.' 

The   broad-shouldered    man    sitting    in    the 

corner  raised  his  head  quickly  at  these  words 

and  looked  attentively  at  Litvinov. 

*  How  is  that  ? '  observed  Gubaryov  with 
peculiar  gentleness.  '  Have  you  not  yet  re- 
flected on  the  subject,  or  have  you  grown  weary 

of  it?' 

*  How  shall  1  say  ?  It  seems  to  me  that  for 
us  Russians,  it  is  too  early  yet  to  have  political 
views  or  to  imagine  that  we  have  them.  Ob- 
serve that  I  attribute  to  the  word  "  political " 
the  meaning  which  belongs  to  it  by  right,  and 
that ' 

30 


SMOKE 

V        *  Aha !     he    belongs    to     the    undeveloped/ 

'^Gubaryov    interrupted    him,    with    the    same 

gentleness,   and    going   up   to   Voroshilov,   he 

asked  him  :  *  Had  he  read  the  pamphlet  he  had 

given  him  ? ' 

Voroshilov,  to  Litvinov's  astonishment,  had 
not  uttered  a  word  ever  since  his  entrance,  but 
had  only  knitted  his  brows  and  rolled  his  eyes 
(as  a  rule  he  was  either  speechifying  or  else  per- 
fectly dumb).  He  now  expanded  his  chest  in 
soldierly  fashion,  and  with  a  tap  of  his  heels, 
nodded  assent. 

*  Well,  and  how  was  it  ?     Did  you  like  it  ?  * 

*  As  regards  the  fundamental  principles,  I 
liked  it ;  but  I  did  not  agree  with  the  inferences/ 

'  Mmm.  .  .  .  Andrei  Ivanitch  praised  that 
pamphlet,  however.  You  must  expand  your 
doubts  to  me  later.' 

*  You  desire  it  in  writing  ?  * 

Gubaryov  was  obviously  surprised  ;  he  had 
not  expected  this ;  however,  after  a  moment's 
thought,  he  replied : 

'  Yes,  in  writing.  By  the  way,  I  will  ask  you 
to  explain  to  me  your  views  also  ...  in  regard 
to  ...  in  regard  to  associations.' 

*  Associations  on  Lassalle's  system,  do  you 
desire,  or  on  the  system  of  Schulze-Delitzsch  ? ' 

*  Mmm.  ...  on  both.  For  us  Russians,  you 
understand,  the  financial  aspect  of  the  matter 

31 


SMOKE 

is  specially  important.  Yes,  and  the  artel  .  .  . 
as  the  germ.  .  .  All  that,  one  must  take  note 
of.  One  must  go  deeply  into  it.  And  the 
question,  too,  of  the  land  to  bt  apportioned  to 
the  peasants.  .  .  .' 

'  And  you,  Stepan  Nikolaitch,  what  is  your 
view  as  to  the  number  of  acres  suitable  ? '  in- 
quired Voroshilov,  with  reverential  delicacy  in 
his  voice. 

'  Mmm.  .  .  .  and  the  commune?'  articulated 
Gubaryov,  deep  in  thought,  and  biting  a  tuft  of 
his  beard  he  stared  at  the  table-leg.  '  The 
commune !  .  .  .  Do  you  understand.  That  is  a 
grand  word !  Then  what  is  the  significance 
of  these  conflagrations  ?  these  .  .  .  these 
government  measures  against  Sunday-schools, 
reading-rooms,  journals?  And  the  refusal  of 
the  peasants  to  sign  the  charters  regulating  their 
position  in  the  future?  And  finally,  what  of 
what  is  happening  in  Poland  ?  Don't  you  see 
that  .  .  .  mmm.  .  .  .  that  we  ...  we  have  to 
unite  with  the  people  .  .  .  find  out  .  .  .  find  out 

their  views '     Suddenly  a  heavy,  almost  a 

wrathful  emotion  seemed  to  take  possession  of 
Gubaryov ;  he  even  grew  black  in  the  face  and 
breathed  heavily,  but  still  did  not  raise  his 
eyes,  and  continued  to  gnaw  at  his  beard. 
•  Can't  you  see * 

'  Yevseyev  is  a  wretch  !  *  Madame  Suhantchi- 

32 


SMOKE 

kov  burst  out  noisily  all  of  a  sudden.  Bambaev 
had  been  relating  something  to  her  in  a  voice 
lowered  out  of  respect  for  their  host.  Gubaryov 
turned  round  swiftly  on  his  heels,  and  again 
began  limping  about  the  room. 

Fresh  guests  began  to  arrive ;  towards  the 
end  of  the  evening  a  good  many  people  were 
assembled.  Among  them  came,  too,  Mr. 
Yevseyev  whom  Madame  Suhantchikov  had 
vilified  so  cruelly.  She  entered  into  conversa- 
tion with  him  very  cordially,  and  asked  him  to 
escort  her  home  ;  there  arrived  too  a  certain 
Fishtchalkin,  an  ideal  mediator,  one  of  those 
men  of  precisely  whom  perhaps  Russia  stands 
in  need — a  man,  that  is,  narrow,  of  little  infor- 
mation, and  no  great  gifts,  but  conscientious, 
patient,  and  honest ;  the  peasants  of  his  district 
almost  worshipped  him,  and  he  regarded  him- 
self very  respectfully  as  a  creature  genuinely 
deserving  of  esteem.  A  few  officers,  too,  were 
there,  escaped  for  a  brief  furlough  to  Europe, 
and  rejoicing — though  of  course  warily,  and 
ever  mindful  of  their  colonel  in  the  back- 
ground of  their  brains — in  the  opportunity  of 
dallying  a  little  with  intellectual — even  rather 
dangerous — people  ;  two  lanky  students  from 
Heidelberg  came  hurrying  in,  one  looked  about 
him  very  contemptuously,  the  other  giggled 
spasmodically  .  .  .  both  were  very  ill  at  ease; 

33  C 


SMOKE 

after  them  a  Frenchman — a  so-called  petit  jeune 
homnie — poked  his  nose  in ;  a  nasty,  silly, 
pitiful  little  creature,  .  .  .  who  enjoyed  some 
repute  among  his  fellow  commis-voyageurs  on 
the  theory  that  Russian  countesses  had  fallen 
in  love  with  him  ;  for  his  own  part,  his  reflec- 
tions were  centred  more  upon  getting  a  supper 
gratis ;  the  last  to  appear  was  Tit  Bindasov,  in 
appearance  a  rollicking  German  student,  in 
reality  a  skinflint,  in  words  a  terrorist,  by 
vocation  a  police-officer,  a  friend  of  Russian 
merchants'  wives  and  Parisian  cocottes ;  bald, 
toothless,  and  drunken;  he  arrived  very  red 
and  sodden,  affirming  that  he  had  lost  his  last 
farthing  to  that  blackguard  Benazet ;  in  reality, 
he  had  won  sixteen  guldens.  ...  In  short, 
there  were  a  number  of  people.  Remarkable — 
really  remarkable — was  the  respect  with  which 
all  these  people  treated  Gubaryov  as  a  preceptor 
or  chief;  they  laid  their  ideas  before  him,  and 
submitted  them  to  his  judgment ;  and  he 
replied  by  muttering,  plucking  at  his  beard, 
averting  his  eyes,  or  by  some  disconnected, 
meaningless  words,  which  were  at  once  seized 
upon  as  the  utterances  of  the  loftiest  wisdom 
Gubaryov  himself  seldom  interposed  in  the 
discussions  ;  but  the  others  strained  their  lungs 
to  the  utmost  to  make  up  for  it.  It  happened 
more  than  once  that  three  or  four  were  shouting 

34 


SMOKE 

for  ten  minutes  together,  and  all  were  content 
and  understood.  The  conversation  lasted  till 
after  midnight,  and  was  as  usual  distinguished 
by  the  number  and  variety  of  the  subjects 
discussed.  Madame  Suhantchikov  talked  about 
Garibaldi,  about  a  certain  Karl  Ivanovitch, 
who  had  been  flogged  by  the  serfs  of  his  own 
household,  about  Napoleon  III.,  about  women's 
work,  about  a  merchant,  Pleskatchov,  who  had 
designedly  caused  the  death  of  twelve  work- 
women, and  had  received  a  medal  for  it  with 
the  inscription  *  for  public  services '  ;  about 
the  proletariat,  about  the  Georgian  Prince 
Tchuktcheulidzov,  who  had  shot  his  wife  with 
a  cannon,  and  about  the  future  of  Russia. 
Pishtchalkin,  too,  talked  of  the  future  of  Russia, 
and  of  the  spirit  monopoly,  and  of  the  signifi- 
cance of  nationalities,  and  of  how  he  hated  above 
everything  what  was  vulgar.  There  was  an  out- 
burst all  of  a  sudden  from  Voroshilov ;  in  a 
single  breath,  almost  choking  himself,  he  men- 
tioned Draper,  Virchow,  Shelgunov,  Bichat, 
Helmholtz,  Star,  St.  Raymund,  Johann  Muller 
the  physiologist,  and  Johann  Muller  the  historian 
— obviously  confounding  them — Taine,  Renan, 
Shtchapov ;  and  then  Thomas  Nash,  Peele, 
Greene.  ...  *  What  sort  of  queer  fish  may  they 
be?'  Bambaev  muttered  bewildered,  Shake- 
speare's predecessors  having  the  same  relation 

as 


SMOKE 

to  him  as  the  ranges  of  the  Alps  to  Mont  Blanc. 
Voroshilov  replied  cuttingly,  and  he  too  touched 
on  the  future  of  Russia.  Bambaev  also  spoke 
of  the  future  of  Russia,  and  even  depicted  it  in 
glowing  colours:  but  he  was  thrown  into  special 
raptures  over  the  thought  of  Russian  music,  in 
which  he  saw  something.  *  Ah  !  great  indeed  ! ' 
and  in  confirmation  he  began  humming  a  song 
of  Varlamov's,  but  was  soon  interrupted  by  a 
general  shout,  '  He  is  singing  the  Miserere  from 
the  Trovatore,  and  singing  it  excruciatingly  too.' 
One  little  officer  was  reviling  Russian  literature 
in  the  midst  of  the  hubbub ;  another  was  quot- 
ing verses  from  Sparks;  but  Tit  Bindasov 
went  even  further ;  he  declared  that  all  these 
swindlers  ought  to  have  their  teeth  knocked 
out,  .  .  .  and  that 's  all  about  it,  but  he  did  not 
particularise  who  were  the  swindlers  alluded  to. 
The  smoke  from  the  cigars  became  stifling  ;  all 
were  hot  and  exhausted,  every  one  was  hoarse, 
all  eyes  were  growing  dim,  and  the  perspiration 
stood  out  in  drops  on  every  face.  Bottles  of 
iced  beer  were  brought  in  and  drunk  off  in- 
stantaneously. 'What  was  I  saying?'  remarked 
one ;  '  and  with  whom  was  I  disputing,  and 
about  what?'  inquired  another.  And  among 
all  the  uproar  and  the  smoke,  Gubaryov  walked 
indefatigably  up  and  down  as  before,  swaying 
from  side  to  side  and  twitching  at  his  beard ; 

36 


SMOKE 

now  listening,  turning  an  ear  to  some  contro- 
versy, now  putting  in  a  word  of  his  own  ;  and 
every  one  was  forced  to  feel  that  he,  Gubaryov, 
was  the  source  of  it  all,  that  he  was  the  master 
here,  and  the  most  eminent  personality.  .  .  . 

Litvinov,  towards  ten  o'clock,  began  to  have 
a  terrible  headache,  and,  taking  advantage  of 
a  louder  outburst  of  general  excitement,  went 
off  quietly  unobserved.  Madame  Suhantchikov 
had  recollected  a  fresh  act  of  injustice  of  Prince 
Barnaulov  ;  he  had  all  but  given  orders  to  have 
some  one's  ears  bitten  off. 

The  fresh  night  air  enfolded  Litvinov's  flushed 
face  caressingly,  the  fragrant  breeze  breathed 
on  his  parched  lips.  'What  is  it,'  he  thought 
as  he  went  along  the  dark  avenue,  '  that  I  have 
been  present  at?  Why  were  they  met  together? 
What  were  they  shouting,  scolding,  and  making 
such  a  pother  about  ?  What  was  it  all  for  ? ' 
Litvinov  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  turning 
into  Weber's,  he  picked  up  a  newspaper  and 
asked  for  an  ice.  The  newspaper  was  taken 
up  with  a  discussion  on  the  Roman  question, 
and  the  ice  turned  out  to  be  very  nasty.  He 
was  already  preparing  to  go  home,  when 
suddenly  an  unknown  person  in  a  wide- 
brimmed  hat  drew  near,  and  saying  in  Russian  • 
*  I  hope  I  am  not  in  your  way  ? '  sat  down  at 
his  table.     Only  then,  after  a  closer  glance  at 

37 


SMOKE 

the  stranger,  Litvinov  recognised  him  as  the 
broad-shouldered  gentleman  hidden  away  in  a 
corner  at  Gubaryov's,  who  had  stared  at  him 
with  such  attention  when  the  conversation  had 
turned  on  political  views.  During  the  whole 
evening  this  gentleman  had  not  once  opened 
his  mouth,  and  now,  sitting  down  near  Litvinov, 
and  taking  off  his  hat,  he  looked  at  him  with 
an  expression  of  friendliness  and  some  em- 
barrassment. 


3« 


V 

'Mr.  Gubaryov,  at  whose  rooms  I  had  the 
pleasure  of  meeting  you  to-day/  he  began,  '  did 
not  introduce  me  to  you  ;  so  that,  with  your 
leave,  I  will  now  introduce  myself — Potugin, 
retired  councillor.  I  was  in  the  department  of 
finances  in  St.  Petersburg.  I  hope  you  do  not 
think  it  strange.  ...  I  am  not  in  the  habit  as 
a  rule  of  making  friends  so  abruptly  .  .  .  but 
with  you.  .  .  .' 

Here  Potugin  grew  rather  mixed,  and  he 
asked  the  waiter  to  bring  him  a  little  glass  of 
kirsch-wasser.  '  To  give  me  courage,'  he  added 
with  a  smile. 

Litvinov  looked  with  redoubled  interest  at 
the  last  of  all  the  new  persons  with  whom  it 
had  been  his  lot  to  be  brought  into  contact  that 
day.  His  thought  was  at  once,  *  He  is  not 
the  same  as  those.' 

Certainly  he  was  not.  There  sat  before  him, 
drumming  with  delicate  fingers  on  the  edge  of 

39 


SMOKE 

the  table,  a  broad-shouldered  man,  with  an 
ample  frame  on  short  legs,  a  downcast  head  of 
curly  hair,  with  very  intelligent  and  very  mourn- 
ful eyes  under  bushy  brows,  a  thick  well-cut 
mouth,  bad  teeth,  and  that  purely  Russian  nose 
to  which  is  assigned  the  epithet  '  potato '  ;  a 
man  of  awkward,  even  odd  exterior  ;  at  least, 
he  was  certainly  not  of  a  common  type.  He 
was  carelessly  dressed  ;  his  old-fashioned  coat 
hung  on  him  like  a  sack,  and  his  cravat  was 
twisted  awry.  His  sudden  friendliness,  far  from 
striking  Litvinov  as  intrusive,  secretl}^  flattered 
him  ;  it  was  impossible  not  to  see  that  it  was 
not  a  common  practice  with  this  man  to  attach 
himself  to  strangers.  He  made  a  curious  im- 
pression on  Litvinov ;  he  awakened  in  him 
respect  and  liking,  and  a  kind  of  involuntary 
compassion. 

'  I  am  not  in  your  way  then  ? '  he  repeated  in 
a  soft,  rather  languid  and  faint  voice,  which  was 
marvellously  in  keeping  with  his  whole  per- 
sonality. 

'  No,  indeed,'  replied  Litvinov  ;  *  quite  the 
contrary,  I  am  very  glad.' 

'  Really  ?  Well,  then,  I  am  glad  too.  I  have 
heard  a  great  deal  about  you  ;  I  know  what 
you  are  engaged  in,  and  what  your  plans  are. 
It 's  a  good  work.  That 's  why  you  were  silent 
this  evening.' 

40 


SMOKE 

'  Yes  ;  you  too  said  very  little,  I  fancy/  ob- 
served Litvinov. 

Potugin  sighed.  *  The  others  said  enough  and 
to  spare.  I  listened.  Well,'  he  added,  after 
a  moment's  pause,  raising  his  eyebrows  with 
a  rather  humorous  expression,  'did  you  like 
our  building  of  the  Tower  of  Babel  ? ' 

'  That 's  just  what  it  was.  You  have  expressed 
it  capitally.  I  kept  wanting  to  ask  those  gentle- 
men what  they  were  in  such  a  fuss  about' 

Potugin  sighed  again. 

*  That 's  the  whole  point  of  it,  that  they  don't 
know  that  themselves.  In  former  days  the 
expression  used  about  them  would  have  been  : 
"  they  are  the  blind  instruments  of  higher  ends  "  ; 
well,  nowadays  we  make  use  of  sharper  epithets. 
And  take  note  that  I  am  not  in  the  least  in- 
tending to  blame  them  ;  I  will  say  more,  they 
are  all  .  .  .  that  is,  almost  all,  excellent  people. 
Of  Madame  Suhantchikov,  for  instance,  I  know 
for  certain  much  that  is  good  ;  she  gave  away 
the  last  of  her  fortune  to  two  poor  nieces.  Even 
admitting  that  the  desire  of  doing  something 
picturesque,  of  showing  herself  off,  was  not 
without  its  influence  on  her,  still  you  will  agree 
that  it  was  a  remarkable  act  of  self-sacrifice  in 
a  woman  not  herself  well-off!  Of  Mr.  Pish- 
tchalkin  there  is  no  need  to  speak  even ;  the 
peasants  of  his  district  will  certainly  in  time 

41 


'^A 


SMOKE 

present  him  with  a  silver  bowl  like  a  pumpkin, 
and  perhaps  even  a  holy  picture  representing 
his  patron  saint,  and  though  he  will  tell  them 
in  his  speech  of  thanks  that  he  does  not  deserve 
such  an  honour,  he  won't  tell  the  truth  there  ; 
he  does  deserve  it.  Mr.  Bambaev,  your  friend, 
has  a  wonderfully  good  heart ;  it 's  true  that  it 's 
with  him  as  with  the  poet  Yazikov,  who  they 
say  used  to  sing  the  praises  of  Bacchic  revelry, 
sitting  over  a  book  and  sipping  water  ;  his 
enthusiasm  is  completely  without  a  special 
object,  still  it  is  enthusiasm  ;  and  Mr.  Voroshilov, 
too,  is  the  most  good-natured  fellow ;  like  all 
his  sort,  all  men  who've  taken  the  first  prizei 
at  school,  he  V  an  aide-de-camp  of  the  sciences, 
and  he  even  holds  his  tongue  sententiously,  but 
then  he  is  so  young.  Yes,  yes,  they  are  all  ex- 
cellent people,  and  when  you  come  to  results, 
there  's  nothing  to  show  for  it ;  the  ingredients 
are  all  first-rate,  but  the  dish  is  not  worth 
eating.* 

Litvinov  listened  to  Potugin  with  growing 
astonishment :  every  phrase,  every  turn  of  his 
slow  but  self-confident  speech  betrayed  both 
the  power  of  speaking  and  the  desire  to 
speak. 

Potugin  did,  in  fact,  like  speaking,  and  could 
speak  well ;  but,  as  a  man  in  whom  life  had 
succeeded  in  wearing  away  vanity,  he  waited 

42 


SMOKE 

with  philosophic  calm  for  a  good  opportunity,  a 
meeting  with  a  kindred  spirit. 

'  Yes,  yes,'  he  began  again,  with  the  special 
dejected  but  not  peevish  humour  peculiar  to 
him,  *  it  is  all  very  strange.  And  there  is  some- 
thing else  I  want  you  to  note.  Let  a  dozen 
Englishmen,  for  example,  come  together,  and 
they  will  at  once  begin  to  talk  of  the  sub- 
marine telegraph,  or  the  tax  on  paper,  or  a 
method  of  tanning  rats'  skins, — of  something, 
that 's  to  say,  practical  and  definite ;  a  dozen 
Germans,  and  of  course  Schleswig-Holstein 
and  the  unity  of  Germany  will  be  brought  on 
the  Scene  ;  given  a  dozen  Frenchmen,  and  the 
conversation  will  infallibly  turn  upon  amorous 
adventures,  however  much  you  try  to  divert 
them  from  the  subject ;  but  let  a  dozen  Russians 
meet  together,  and  instantly  there  springs  up 
the  question — you  had  an  opportunity  of  being 
convinced  of  the  fact  this  evening — the  question 
of  the  significance  and  the  future  of  Russia, 
and  in  terms  so  general,  beginning  with  creation, 
without  facts  or  conclusions.  They  worry  and 
worry  away  at  that  unlucky  subject,  as  children 
chew  away  at  a  bit  of  india-rubber — neither 
*  for  pleasure  nor  profit,  as  the  saying  is.  Well, 
then,  of  course  the  rotten  West  comes  in 
for  its  share.  It 's  a  curious  thing,  it  beats 
us  at  every  point,  this  West — but  yet  we  declare 

43 


SMOKE 

that  it 's  rotten  !  And  if  only  we  had  a  genuine 
contempt  for  it,'  pursued  Potugin,  *  but  that  *s 
really  all  cant  and  humbug.  We  can  do  well 
enough  as  far  as  abuse  goes,  but  the  opinion  of 
the  West  is  the  only  thing  we  value,  the  opinion, 
that 's  to  say,  of  the  Parisian  loafers.  ...  I  know 
a  man — a  good  fellow,  I  fancy — the  father  of 
a  family,  and  no  longer  young ;  he  was  thrown 
into  deep  dejection  for  some  days  because  in  a 
Parisian  restaurant  he  had  asked  lor  une  portion 
de  biftek  aux  pommes  de  terre^  and  a  real  French- 
man thereupon  shouted :  Gargonl  biftek  pommes  ! 
My  friend  was  ready  to  die  with  shame,  and  after 
that  he  shouted  everywhere,  Biftek  pommes  !  and 
taught  others  to  do  the  same.  The  very  cocottes 
are  surprised  at  the  reverential  trepidation  with 
which  our  young  barbarians  enter  their  shame- 
ful drawing-rooms.  "  Good  God  ! "  they  are 
thinking,  "  is  this  really  where  I  am,  with  no 
less  a  person  than  Anna  Deslions  herself! "  ' 

'  Tell  me,  pray,'  continued  Litvinov,  *  to  what 
do  you  ascribe  the  influence  Gubaryov  undoubt- 
edly has  over  all  about  him  ?  Is  it  his  talent, 
his  abilities  ? ' 

*  No,  no  ;  there  is  nothing  of  that  sort  about 
him.  .  .  .' 

*  His  personal  character  is  it,  then  ? ' 

*  Not  that  either,  but  he  has  a  strong  will. 
We  Slavs,  for  the  most  part,  as  we  all  know, 

44 


SMOKE 

are  badly  off  for  that  commodity,  and  we  grovel 
before  it.  It  is  Mr.  Gubaryov's  will  to  be  a  ruler, 
and  every  one  has  recognised  him  as  a  ruler. 
What  would  you  have?  The  government 
has  freed  us  from  the  dependence  of  serfdom 
— and  many  thanks  to  it !  but  the  habits  of 
slavery  are  too  deeply  ingrained  in  us  ;  we  can- 
not easily  be  rid  of  them.  We  want  a  master 
in  everything  and  everywhere  ;  as  a  rule  this 
master  is  a  living  person,  sometimes  it  is  some 
so-called  tendency  which  gains  authority  over 
us.  ...  At  present,  for  instance,  we  are  all  the 
bondslaves  of  natural  science.  .  .  .  Why,  owing 
to  what  causes,  we  take  this  bondage  upon  us, 
that  is  a  matter  difficult  to  see  into ;  but  such 
seemingly  is  our  nature.  But  the  great  thing 
is,  that  we  should  have  a  master.  Well,  here  he 
is  amongst  us ;  that  means  he  is  ours,  and  we 
can  afford  to  despise  everything  else !  Simply 
slaves  !  And  our  pride  is  slavish,  and  slavish 
too  is  our  humility.  If  a  new  master  arises — 
it 's  all  over  with  the  old  one.  Then  it  was 
Yakov,  and  now  it  is  Sidor ;  we  box  Yakov's 
ears  and  kneel  to  Sidor !  Call  to  mind  how 
many  tricks  of  that  sort  have  been  played 
amongst  us !  We  talk  of  scepticism  as  our 
special  characteristic  ;  but  even  in  our  scepticism 
we  are  not  like  a  free  man  fighting  with  a  sword, 
but  like  a  lackey  hitting  out  with  his  fist,  and 

45 


SMOKE 

very  likely  he  is  doing  even  that  at  his  master's 
bidding.  Then,  we  are  a  soft  people  too  ;  it 's 
not  difficult  to  keep  the  curb  on  us.  So  that 's 
the  way  Mr.  Gubaryov  has  become  a  power 
among  us ;  he  has  chipped  and  chipped  away 
at  one  point,  till  he  has  chipped  himsehf  into 
success.  People  see  that  he  is  a  man  who  has 
a  great  opinion  of  himself,  who  believes  in  him- 
self, and  commands.  That 's  the  great  thing, 
that  he  can  command ;  it  follows  that  he  must 
be  right,  and  we  ought  to  obey  him.  All 
our  sects,  our  Onuphrists  and  Akulinists,  were 
founded  exactly  in  that  way.  He  who  holds 
the  rod  is  the  corporal.' 

Potugin's  cheeks  were  flushed  and  his  eyes 
grew  dim  ;  but,  strange  to  say,  his  speech,  cruel 
and  even  malicious  as  it  was,  had  no  touch  of 
bitterness,  but  rather  of  sorrow,  genuine  and 
sincere  sorrow. 

*  How  did  you  come  to  know  Gubaryov  ?  * 
asked  Litvinov. 

'  I  have  known  him  a  long  while.  And 
observe,  another  peculiarity  among  us  ;  a  certain 
writer,  for  example,  spent  his  whole  life  in 
inveighing  in  prose  and  verse  against  drunken- 
ness, and  attacking  the  system  of  the  drink 
monopoly,  and  lo  and  behold  !  he  went  and 
bought  two  spirit  distilleries  and  opened  a  hun- 
dred drink-shops — and  it  made  no  difference  ! 

46 


SMOKE 

Any  other  man  might  have  been  wiped  off  the 
face  of  the  earth,  but  he  was  not  even  reproached 
for  it.  And  here  is  Mr.  Gubaryov  ;  he  is  a  Slavo- 
phil and  a  democrat  and  a  socialist  and  anything 
you  like,  but  his  property  has  been  and  is  still 
managed  by  his  brother,  a  master  of  the  old 
style,  one  of  those  who  were  famous  for  their 
fists.  And  the  very  Madame  Suhantchikov, 
who  makes  Mrs.  Beecher  Stowe  box  Tentel- 
yev's  ears,  is  positively  in  the  dust  before 
Gubaryov's  feet.  And  you  know  the  only 
thing  he  has  to  back  him  is  that  he  reads  clever 
books,  and  always  gets  at  the  pith  of  them. 
You  could  see  for  yourself  to-day  what  sort  of 
gift  he  has  for  expression  ;  and  thank  God,  too, 
that  he  does  talk  little,  and  keeps  in  his  shell. 
For  when  he  is  in  good  spirits,  and  lets  himself  go, 
then  it's  more  than  even  I,  patient  as  I  am,  can 
stand.  He  begins  by  coarse  joking  and  telling 
filthy  anecdotes  .  .  .  yes,  really,  our  majestic  Mr. 
Gubaryov  tells  filthy  anecdotes,  and  guffaws 
so  revoltingly  over  them  all  the  time.' 

'  Are  you  so  patient  ? '  observed  Litvinov.  *  I 
should  have  supposed  the  contrary.  But  let  me 
ask  your  name  and  your  father's  name  .-* ' 

Potugin  sipped  a  little  kirsch-wasser. 

*  My  name  is  Sozont.  .  ,  .  Sozont  Ivanitch. 
They  gave  me  that  magnificent  name  in  honour 
of  a  kinsman,  an  archimandrite,  to  whom  I  am 

47 
/ 


SMOKE  ^ 

indebted  for  nothing  else.  I  am,  if  I  may  ven- 
ture so  to  express  myself,  of  most  reverend 
stock.  And  as  for  your  doubts  about  my 
patience,  they  are  quite  groundless :  I  am  very 
patient.  I  served  for  twenty-two  years  under 
the  authority  of  my  own  uncle,  an  actual  coun- 
cillor of  state,  Irinarh  Fotugin.  You  don't  know 
him  ? ' 

'  No.' 

*  I  congratulate  you.  No,  I  am  patient.  "But 
let  us  return  to  our  first  head,"  as  my  esteemed 
colleague,  who  was  burned  alive  some  centuries 
ago,  the  protopope  Avvakum,  used  to  say.  I  am 
amazed,  my  dear  sir,  at  my  fellow-countrymen. 
They  are  all  depressed,  they  all  walk  with  down- 
cast heads,  and  at  the  same  time  they  are  all  filled 
with  hope,  and  on  the  smallest  excuse  they  lose 
their  heads  and  fly  off  into  ecstasies.  Look  at 
the  Slavophils  even,  among  whom  Mr.  Gubaryov 
reckons  himself:  they  are  most  excellent  people, 
but  there  is  the  same  mixture  of  despair  and 
exultation,  they  too  live  in  the  future  tense. 
Everything  will  be,  will  be,  if  you  please.  In 
reality  there  is  nothing  done,  and  Russia  for 
ten  whole  centuries  has  created  nothing  of  its 
own,  either  in  government,  in  law,  in  science,  in 
art,  or  even  in  handicraft.  .  .  .  But  wait  a  little, 
have  patience ;  it  is  all  coming.  And  why  is 
it  coming  ;   give    us  leave    to  inquire  ?     Why, 

48 


SMOKE 

because  we,  to  be  sure,  the  cultured  classes  are 
all  worthless  ;  but  the  people  .  .  .  Oh,  the  great 
people  !  You  see  that  peasant's  smock  ?  That 
is  the  source  that  everything  is  to  come  from. 
All  the  other  idols  have  broken  down  ;  let  us 
have  faith  in  the  smock-frock.  Well,  but  sup- 
pose the  smock-frock  fails  us  ?  No,  it  will  not 
fail.  Read  Kohanovsky,  and  cast  your  eyes  up 
to  heaven  !  Really,  if  I  were  a  painter,  I  would 
paint  a  picture  of  this  sort :  a  cultivated  man 
standing  before  a  peasant,  doing  him  homage : 
heal  me,  dear  master-peasant,  I  am  perishing  of 
disease  ;  and  a  peasant  doing  homage  in  his  turn 
to  the  cultivated  man  :  teach  me,  dear  master- 
gentleman,  I  am  perishing  from  ignorance. 
Well,  and  of  course,  both  are  standing  still. 
But  what  we  ought  to  do  is  to  feel  really 
humble  for  a  little — not  only  in  words — and 
to  borrow  from  our  elder  brothers  what  they 
have  invented  already  before  us  and  better  than 
us !  Waiter,  noch  ein  Gldschen  Kirsch  I  You 
mustn't  think  I  'm  a  drunkard,  but  alcohol 
loosens  my  tongue.' 

'  After  what  you  have  just  said,*  observed 
Litvinov  with  a  smile,  '  I  need  not  even  inquire 
to  which  party  you  belong,  and  what  is  your 
opinion  about  Europe.  But  let  me  make  one 
observation  to  you.  You  say  that  we  ought  to 
borrow  from  our  elder  brothers :  but  how  can 

49  D 


SMOKE 

we  borrow  without  consideration  of  the  condi- 
tions of  climate  and  of  soil,  the  local  and  national 
peculiarities?  My  father,  I  recollect,  ordered 
from  Butenop  a  cast-iron  thrashing  machine 
highly  recommended  ;  the  machine  was  very 
good,  certainly — but  what  happened  ?  For  five 
long  years  it  remained  useless  in  the  barn,  till  it 
was  replaced  by  a  wooden  American  one — far 
more  suitable  to  our  ways  and  habits,  as  the 
American  machines  are  as  a  rule.  One  cannot 
borrow  at  random,  Sozont  Ivanitch.' 

Potugin  lifted  his  head. 

*  I  did  not  expect  such  a  criticism  as  that 
from  you,  excellent  Grigory  Mihalovitch,'  he 
began,  after  a  moment's  pause.  '  Who  wants  to 
make  you  borrow  at  random  ?  Of  course  you 
steal  what  belongs  to  another  man,  not  because 
it  is  some  one  else's,  but  because  it  suits  you ;  so 
it  follows  that  you  consider,  you  make  a  selection. 
And  as  for  results,  pray  don't  let  us  be  unjust 
to  ourselves ;  there  will  be  originality  enough 
in  them  by  virtue  of  those  very  local,  climatic, 
and  other  conditions  which  you  mention.  Only 
lay  good  food  before  it,  and  the  natural  stomach 
will  digest  it  in  its  own  way ;  and  in  time,  as 
the  organism  gains  in  vigour,  it  will  give  it  a 
sauce  of  its  own.  Take  our  language  even  as 
an  instance.  Peter  the  Great  deluged  it  with 
thousands  of  foreign  words,  Dutch,  French,  and 

50 


SMOKB 

German ;  those  words  expressed  ideas  with 
which  the  Russian  people  had  to  be  famih'ar- 
ised  ;  without  scruple  or  ceremony  Peter  poured 
them  wholesale  by  bucketsful  into  us.  At  first, 
of  course, the  result  was  something  of  a  monstrous 
product ;  but  later  there  began  precisely  that 
process  of  digestion  to  which  I  have  alluded. 
The  ideas  had  been  introduced  and  assimilated  ; 
the  foreign  forms  evaporated  gradually,  and  the 
language  found  substitutes  for  them  from  within 
itself;  and  now  your  humble  servant,  the  most 
mediocre  stylist,  will  undertake  to  translate  any 
page  you  like  out  of  Hegel — yes,  indeed,  out  of 
Hegel — without  making  use  of  a  single  word 
not  Slavonic.  What  has  happened  with  the 
language,  one  must  hope  will  happen  in  other 
departments.  It  all  turns  on  the  question  :  is  it 
a  nature  of  strong  vitality  ?  and  our  nature — 
well,  it  will  stand  the  test ;  it  has  gone  through 
greater  trials  than  that.  Only  nations  in  a  state 
of  nervous  debility,  feeble  nations,  need  fear  for 
their  health  and  their  independence,  just  as  it  is 
only  weak-minded  people  who  are  capable  of 
falling  into  triumphant  rhapsodies  over  the  fact 
that  we  are  Russians.  I  am  very  careful  over 
my  health,  but  I  don't  go  into  ecstasies  over  it : 
I  should  be  ashamed.' 

*That  is  all  very  true,  Sozont  Ivanitch,'  ob- 
served Litvinov  in  his  turn  ;  *  but  why  inevitably 

51 


SMOKE 

expose  ourselves  to  such  tests  ?  You  say  your- 
self that  at  first  the  result  was  monstrous ! 
Well,  what  if  that  monstrous  product  had  per- 
sisted ?  Indeed  it  has  persisted,  as  you  know 
yourself 

*  Only  not  in  the  language — and  that  means 
a  great  deal !  And  it  is  our  people,  not  I,  who 
have  done  it ;  I  am  not  to  blame  because  they 
are  destined  to  go  through  a  discipline  of  this 
kind.  "  The  Germans  have  developed  in  a 
normal  way,"  cry  the  Slavophils,  "  let  us  too 
have  a  normal  development ! "  But  how  are 
^  /  you  to  get  it  when  the  very  first  historical  step 
taken  by  our  race — the  summoning  of  a  prince 
from  over  the  sea  to  rule  over  them — is  an 
irregularity,  an  abnormality,  which  is  repeated 
in  every  one  of  us  down  to  the  present  day  ; 
each  of  us,  at  least  once  in  his  life,  has  cer- 
tainly said  to  something  foreign,  not  Russian  : 
"  Come,  rule  and  reign  over  me  !  "  I  am  ready, 
of  course,  to  agree  that  when  we  put  a  foreign 
substance  into  our  own  body  we  cannot  tell  for 
certain  what  it  is  we  are  putting  there,  bread  or 
poison  ;  yet  it  is  a  well-known  thing  that  you 
can  never  get  from  bad  to  good  through  what 
is  better,  but  always  through  a  worse  state  of 
transition,  and  poison  too  is  useful  in  medicine. 
It  is  only  fit  for  fools  or  knaves  to  point  with 
triumph  to  the  poverty  of  the  peasants  after  the 

52 


SMOKE 

emancipation,  and  the  increase  of  drunkenness 
since  the  abolition  of  the  farming  of  the  spirit- 
tax.  .  .      Through  worse  to  better  ! ' 

Potugin  passed  his  hand  over  his  face.  '  You 
asked  me  what  was  my  opinion  of  Europe,'  he 
began  again  :  *  I  admire  her,  and  am  devoted  to 
her  principles  to  the  last  degree,  and  don't  in 
the  least  think  it  necessary  to  conceal  the  fact. 
I  have  long — no,  not  long — for  some  time  ceased 
to  be  afraid  to  give  full  expression  to  my  con- 
victions— and  I  saw  that  you  too  had  no 
hesitation  in  informing  Mr.  Gubaryov  of  your 
own  way  of  thinking.  Thank  God  I  have 
given  up  paying  attention  to  the  ideas  and 
points  of  view  and  habits  of  the  man  I  am  con- 
versing with.  Really,  I  know  of  nothing  worse 
than  that  quite  superfluous  cowardice,  that 
cringing  desire  to  be  agreeable,  by  virtue  of 
which  you  may  see  an  important  dignitary 
among  us  trying  to  ingratiate  himself  with 
some  little  student  who  is  quite  insignificant 
in  his  eyes,  positively  playing  down  to  him,  with 
all  sorts  of  tricks  and  devices.  Even  if  we 
admit  that  the  dignitary  may  do  it  out  of  desire 
for  popularity,  what  induces  us  common  folk  to 
shuffle  and  degrade  ourselves.  Yes,  yes,  I  am 
a  Westerner,  I  am  devoted  to  Europe :  that 's  to 
aay,  speaking  more  accurately,  I  am  devoted  to 
culture — the  culture  at  which  they  make  fun  so 

53 


c 


SMOKE 

wittily  among  us  just  now — and  to  civilisation 
— yes,  yes,  that  is  a  better  word — and  I  love  it 
with  my  whole  heart  and  believe  in  it,  and  I 
have  no  other  belief,  and  never  shall  have.  That 
word,  ci-vi-li-sa-tion  (Potugin  pronounced  each 
syllable  with  full  stress  and  emphasis),  is 
intelligible,  and  pure,  and  holy,  and  all  the 
other  ideals,  nationality,  glory,  or  what  you  like 
— they  smell  of  blood.  .  .  .  Away  with  them  ! ' 

*  Well,  but  Russia,  Sozont  Ivanitch,  your 
country — you  love  it  ?  ' 

Potugin  passed  his  hand  over  his  face.  *  I 
love  her  passionately  and  passionately  hate  her.' 

Litvinov  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

'  That 's  stale,  Sozont  Ivanitch,  that 's  a 
commonplace.' 

*  And  what  of  it  ?  So  that 's  what  you  're 
afraid  of!  A  commonplace!  I  know  many 
excellent  commonplaces.  Here,  for  example. 
Law  and  Liberty  is  a  well-known  commonplace. 
Why,  do  you  consider  it's  better  as  it  is 
with  us,  lawlessness  and  bureaucratic  tyranny  ? 
And,  besides,  all  those  phrases  by  which  so 
many  young  heads  are  turned  :  vile  bourgeoisie, 
souveraineU  du  peuple^  right  to  labour,  aren't 
they  commonplaces  too?  And  as  for  love, 
inseparable  from  hate  .  .  . ' 

'  Byronism,'  interposed  Litvinov,  *  the  roman- 
ticism of  the  thirties.' 

54 


SMOKE 

*  Excuse  me,  you  're  mistaken  ;  such  a  ming- 
ling of  emotions  was  first  mentioned  by  Catullus, 
the  Roman  poet  Catullus,^  two  thousand  years 
ago.  I  have  read  that,  for  I  know  a  little 
Latin,  thanks  to  my  clerical  origin,  if  so  I  may 
venture  to  express  myself.  Yes,  indeed,  I  both 
love  and  hate  my  Russia,  my  strange,  sweet, 
nasty,  precious  country.  I  have  left  her  just 
now.  I  want  a  little  fresh  air  after  sitting  for 
twenty  years  on  a  clerk's  high  stool  in  a  govern- 
ment office ;  I  have  left  Russia,  and  I  am 
happy  and  contented  here  ;  but  I  shall  soon  go 
back  again  :  I  feel  that.  It 's  a  beautiful  land  of 
gardens — but  our  wild  berries  will  not  grow 
here.' 

*  You  are  happy  and  contented,  and  I  too 
like  the  place,'  said  Litvinov,  '  and  I  came  here 
to  study  ;  but  that  does  not  prevent  me  from 
seeing  things  like  that' 

He  pointed  to  two  cocottes  who  passed 
by,  attended  by  a  little  group  of  members  of 
the  Jockey  Club,  grimacing  and  lisping,  and  to 
the  gambling  saloon,  full  to  overflowing  in  spite 
of  the  lateness  of  the  hour. 

'And  who  told  you  I  am  blind  to  that?' 
Potugin  broke  in.  *  But  pardon  my  saying  it, 
your   remark   reminds   me  of  the   triumphant 

*  Odi  et  amo.     Quare  id  faciam,  fortasse  requiris. 
Nescio  :  sed  fieri  sentio,  et  excrucior. — Catull,  Ixxxvi. 

55 


SMOKE 

allusions  made  by  our  unhappy  journalists  at 
the  time  of  the  Crimean  war,  to  the  defects  in 
the  English  War  Department,  exposed  in  the 
Times.  I  am  not  an  optimist  myself,  and  all 
humanity,  all  our  life,  all  this  comedy  with 
tragic  issues  presents  itself  to  me  in  no  roseate 
colours  :  but  why  fasten  upon  the  West  what  is 
perhaps  ingrained  in  our  very  human  nature? 
That  gambling  hall  is  disgusting,  certainly ; 
but  is  our  home-bred  card-sharping  any  lovelier, 
think  you  ?  No,  my  dear  Grigory  Mihalovitch, 
let  us  be  more  humble,  more  retiring.  A  good 
pupil  sees  his  master's  faults,  but  he  keeps  a 
respectful  silence  about  them  ;  these  very 
faults  are  of  use  to  him,  and  set  him  on  the 
right  path.  But  if  nothing  will  satisfy  you  but 
sharpening  your  teeth  on  the  unlucky  West, 
there  goes  Prince  Koko  at  a  gallop,  he  will  most 
likely  lose  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  over  the  green 
table  the  hardly  earned  rent  wrung  from  a  hun- 
dred and  fifty  families  ;  his  nerves  are  upset,  for 
I  saw  him  at  Marx's  to-day  turning  over  a  pam- 
phlet of  Vaillot.  .  .  .  He  will  be  a  capital  person 
for  you  to  talk  to  ! '  ^ 

'  But,  please,  please,'  said  Litvinov  hurriedly, 
seeing  that  Potugin  was  gettin^^  up  from  his 
place,  *  I  know  Prince  Koko  very  little,  and 
besides,  of  course,  I  greatly  prefer  talking  to  you/ 

*  Thanks   very    much,'    Potugin    interrupted 

56 


SMOKE 

him,  getting  up  and  making  a  bow  ;  *but  I  have 
already  had  a  good  deal  of  conversation  with 
you  ;  that 's  to  say,  really,  I  have  talked  alone, 
and  you  have  probably  noticed  yourself  that  a 
man  is  always  as  it  were  ashamed  and  awkward 
when  he  has  done  all  the  talking,  especially  so 
on  a  first  meeting,  as  if  to  show  what  a  fine 
fellow  one  is.  Good-bye  for  the  present.  And 
I  repeat  I  am  very  glad  to  have  made  your 
acquaintance.* 

'  But  wait  a  minute,  Sozont  Ivanitch,  tell  me 
at  least  where  you  live,  and  whether  you  intend 
to  remain  here  long.' 

Potugin  seemed  a  little  put  out. 

'  I  shall  remain  about  a  week  in  Baden.  We 
can  meet  here  though,  at  Weber's  or  at  Marx's, 
or  else  I  will  come  to  you.' 

'  Still  I  must  know  your  address.' 

*  Yes.     But  you  see  I  am  not  alone.' 

'You  are  married?'  asked  Litvinov  suddenly. 

*  No,  good  heavens  !  .  .  .  what  an  absurd  idea ! 
But  I  have  a  girl  with  me.'  .  .  . 

*  Oh ! '  articulated  Litvinov,  with  a  face  of 
studied  politeness,  as  though  he  would  ask 
pardon,  and  he  dropped  his  eyes. 

'  She  is  onl>  b'x  years  old,'  pursued  Potugin. 
*  She 's  an  orphan  .  .  .  the  daughter  of  a  lady  .  . . 
a  good  friend  of  mine.  So  we  had  better  meet 
here.     Good-bye.' 

57 


SMOKE 


He  pulled  his  hat  over  his  curly  head,  and 
disappeared  quickly.  Twice  there  was  a 
glimpse  of  him  under  the  gas-lamps  in  the 
rather  meanly  lighted  road  that  leads  into  the 
Lichtenthaler  Allee. 


58 


VI 


*  A  STRANGE  man  ! '  thought  Litvinov,  as  he 
turned  into  the   hotel  where  he   was  staying ; 

*  a  strange  man !  I  must  see  more  of  him  ! ' 
He  went  into  his  room  ;  a  letter  on  the  table 
caught  his  eye.  '  Ah  !  from  Tanya  ! '  he  thought, 
and  was  overjoyed  at  once  ;  but  the  letter  was 
from  his  country  place,  from  his  father.  Lit- 
vinov broke  the  thick  heraldic  seal,  and  was 
just  setting  to  work  to  read  it  .  .  .  when  he  was 
struck  by  a  strong,  very  agreeable,  and  familiar 
fragrance,  and  saw  in  the  window  a  great  bunch 
of  fresh  heliotrope  in  a  glass  of  water.  Litvinov 
bent  over  them  not  without  amazement,  touched 
them,  and  smelt  them.  .  .  .  Something  seemed 
to  stir  in  his  memory,  something  very  remote  . .  , 
but  what,  precisely,  he  could  not  discover.  He 
rang  for  the  servant  and  asked  him  where  these 
flowers  had  come  from.  The  man  replied  that 
they  had  been  brought  by  a  lady  who  would 
not  give  her  name,  but  said  that  *  Herr  Zliten- 
hov '  would  be  sure  to  guess  who  she  was  by  the 

59 


SMOKE 

flowers.  Again  something  stirred  in  Litvinov's 
memory.  He  asked  the  man  what  the  lady 
looked  like,  and  the  servant  informed  him  that 
she  was  tall  and  grandly  dressed  and  had  a 
veil  over  her  face.  *  A  Russian  countess  most 
likely,'  he  added. 

'  What  makes  you  think  that  ? '  asked  Lit- 
vinov. 

*  She  gave  me  two  guldens,'  responded  the 
servant  with  a  grin. 

Litvinov  dismissed  him,  and  for  a  long  while 
after  he  stood  in  deep  thought  before  the 
window  ;  at  last,  however,  with  a  wave  of  his 
hand,  he  began  again  upon  the  letter  from  the 
country.  His  father  poured  out  to  him  his 
usual  complaints,  asserting  that  no  one  would 
take  their  corn,  even  for  nothing,  that  the  people 
had  got  quite  out  of  all  habits  of  obedience,  and 
that  probably  the  end  of  the  world  was  coming 
soon.  *  Fancy,'  he  wrote,  among  other  things, 
'  my  last  coachman,  the  Kalmuck  boy,  do  you 
remember  him  ?  has  been  bewitched,  and  the 
fellow  would  certainly  have  died,  and  I  should 
have  had  none  to  drive  me,  but,  thank  goodness, 
some  kind  folks  suggested  and  advised  to  send 
the  sick  man  to  Ryazan,  to  a  priest,  well- 
known  as  a  master  against  witchcraft :  and  his 
cure  has  actually  succeeded  as  well  as  possible, 
in   confirmation  of  which  I  lay  before  you  the 

60 


SMOKE 

letter  of  the  good  father  as  a  document.' 
Litvinov  ran  through  this  document  with  curi- 
osity. In  it  was  set  forth :  '  that  the  serving- 
man  Nicanor  Dmitri ev  was  beset  with  a  malady 
which  could  not  be  touched  by  the  medical 
faculty ;  and  this  malady  was  the  work  of 
wicked  people;  but  he  himself,  Nicanor,  was 
the  cause  of  it,  since  he  had  not  fulfilled  his 
promise  to  a  certain  girl,  and  therefore  by  the  aid 
of  others  she  had  made  him  unfit  for  anything, 
and  if  I  had  not  appeared  to  aid  him  in  these 
circumstances,  he  would  surely  have  perished 
utterly,  like  a  worm  ;  but  I,  trusting  in  the 
All-seeing  Eye,  have  become  a  stay  to  him  in 
his  life ;  and  how  I  accomplished  it,  that  is  a 
mystery  ;  I  beg  your  excellency  not  to  counte- 
nance a  girl  who  has  such  wicked  arts,  and 
even  to  chide  her  would  be  no  harm,  or  she 
may  again  work  him  a  mischief.' 

Litvinov  fell  to  musing  over  this  document ; 
it  brought  him  a  whiff  of  the  desert,  of  the 
steppes,  of  the  blind  darkness  of  the  life  mould- 
ering there,  and  it  seemed  a  marvellous  thing 
that  he  should  be  reading  such  a  letter  in 
Baden,  of  all  places.  Meanwhile  it  had  long 
struck  midni{:(ht ;  Litvinov  went  to  bed  and 
put  out  his  light.  But  he  could  not  get  to 
sleep  ;  the  faces  he  had  seen,  the  talk  he  had 
heard,     kept     coming     back     and     revolving, 

6i 


SMOKE 

strangely  interwoven  and  entangled  in  his 
burning  head,  which  ached  from  the  fumes  of 
tobacco.  Now  he  seemed  to  hear  Gubaryov's 
muttering,  and  fancied  his  eyes  with  their  dull, 
persistent  stare  fastened  on  the  floor ;  then 
suddenly  those  eyes  began  to  glow  and  leap, 
and  he  recognised  Madame  Suhantchikov,  and 
listened  to  her  shrill  voice,  and  involuntarily 
repeated  after  her  in  a  whisper,  *  she  did,  she 
did,  slap  his  face.'  Then  the  clumsy  figure  of 
Potugin  passed  before  him  ;  and  for  the  tenth, 
and  the  twentieth  time  he  went  over  every 
word  he  had  uttered  ;  then,  like  a  jack  in  the 
box,  Voroshilov  jumped  up  in  his  trim  coat, 
which  fitted  him  like  a  new  uniform ;  and 
Pishtchalkin  gravely  and  sagaciously  nodded 
his  well-cut  and  truly  well-intentioned  head  ; 
and  then  Bindasov  bawled  and  swore,  and 
Bambaev  fell  into  tearful  transports.  .  .  .  And 
above  all — this  scent,  this  persistent,  sweet, 
heavy  scent  gave  him  no  rest,  and  grew  more 
and  more  powerful  in  the  darkness,  and  more 
and  more  importunately  it  reminded  him  of 
something  which  still  eluded  his  grasp.  .  .  .  The 
idea  occurred  to  Litvinov  that  the  scent  of 
flowers  at  night  in  a  bedroom  was  injurious,  and 
he  got  up,  and  groping  his  way  to  the  nosegay, 
carr'ed  it  into  the  next  room  ;  but  even  from 
there   the   oppressive  fragrance   penetrated  to 

62 


SMOKE 

him  on  his  pillow  and  under  the  counterpane, 
and  he  tossed  in  misery  from  side  to  side.  A 
slight  delirium  had  already  begun  to  creep  over 
him  ;  already  the  priest,  '  the  master  against 
witchcraft '  had  twice  run  across  his  road  in  the 
guise  of  a. very  playful  hare  with  a  beard  and  a 
pig-tail,  and  Voroshilov  was  trilling  before  him, 
sitting  in  a  huge  general's  plumed  cock-hat  like 
a  nightingale  in  a  bush.  .  .  .  When  suddenly 
he  jumped  up  in  bed,  and  clasping  his  hands, 
cried,  '  Can  it  be  she  ?  it  can't  be  ! ' 

But  to  explain  this  exclamation  of  Litvinov's 
we  must  beg  the  indulgent  reader  to  go  back 
a  few  years  with  us. 


63 


VII 

Early  in  the  fifties,  there  was  h'ving  in  Moscow, 
in  very  straitened  ctrcumstances,  almost  in 
poverty,  the  numerous  family  of  the  Princes 
Osinin.  These  were  real  princes — not  Tartar- 
Georgians,  but  pure-blooded  descendants  of 
Rurik.  Their  name  is  often  to  be  met  with  in 
our  chronicles  under  the  first  grand  princes  of 
Moscow,  who  created  a  united  Russia.  They 
possessed  wide  acres  and  many  domains.  Many 
a  time  they  were  rewarded  for  *  service  and 
blood  and  disablement'  They  sat  in  the  Coun- 
cil of  Boyars.  One  of  them  even  rose  to  a  very 
high  position.  But  they  fell  under  the  ban  of 
the  empire  through  the  plots  of  enemies  *  on  a 
charge  of  witchcraft  and  evil  philtres,'  and  they 
were  ruined  '  terribly  and  beyond  recall.'  They 
were  deprived  of  their  rank,  and  banished  to  re- 
mote parts  ;  the  Osinins  fell  and  had  never  risen 
again,  had  never  attained  to  power  again.  The 
ban  was  taken  off  in  time,  and  they  were  even 
reinstated  in  their  Moscow  house  and  belong- 

64 


SMOKE 

ings,  but  it  was  of  no  avail.  Their  family  was 
impoverished,  '  run  to  seed ' ;  it  did  not  revive 
under  Peter,  nor  under  Catherine ;  and  con- 
stantly dwindling  and  growing  humbler,  it  had 
by  now  reckoned  private  stewards,  managers  of 
wine-shops,  and  ward  police-inspectors  among  its 
members.  The  family  of  Osinins,  of  whom  we 
have  made  mention,  consisted  of  a  husband  and 
wife  and  five  children.  It  was  living  near  the 
Dogs'  Place,  in  a  one-storied  little  wooden  house, 
with  a  striped  portico  looking  on  to  the  street, 
green  lions  on  the  gates,  and  all  the  other 
pretensions  of  nobility,  though  it  could  hardly 
make  both  ends  meet,  was  constantly  in  debt 
at  the  green-grocer's,  and  often  sitting  without 
firewood  or  candles  in  the  winter.  The  prince 
himself  was  a  dull,  indolent  man,  who  had  once 
been  a  handsome  dandy,  but  had  gone  to  seed 
completely.  More  from  regard  for  his  wife,  who 
had  been  a  maid-of-honour,  than  from  respect 
for  his  name,  he  had  been  presented  with  one  of 
those  old-fashioned  Moscow  posts  that  have  a 
small  salary,  a  queer-sounding  name,  and  abso- 
kitely  no  duties  attached.  He  never  meddled 
in  anything,  and  did  nothing  but  smoke  from 
morning  till  night,  breathing  heavily,  and  always 
wrapped  in  a  dressing-gown.  His  wife  was  a 
sickly  irritable  woman,  for  ever  worried  over 
domestic    trifles  —  over    getting    her    children 

65  £ 


SMOKE 

placed  in  government  schools,  and  keeping  up 
her  Petersburg  connections ;  she  could  never 
accustom  herself  to  her  position  and  her 
remoteness  from  the  Court. 

Litvinov's  father  had  made  acquaintance  with 
the  Osinins  during  his  residence  at  Moscow, 
had  had  occasion  to  do  them  some  services,  and 
had  once  lent  them  three  hundred  roubles ; 
and  his  son  oftfen  visited  them  while  he  was  a 
student ;  his  lodging  happened  to  be  at  no  great 
distance  from  their  house.  But  he  was  not 
drawn  to  them  simply  as  near  neighbours,  nor 
tempted  by  their  comfortless  way  of  living.  He 
began  to  be  a  frequent  visitor  at  their  house 
after  he  had  fallen  in  love  with  their  eldest 
daughter  Irina. 

She  had  then  completed  her  seventeenth  year; 
she  had  only  just  left  school,  from  which  her 
mother  withdrew  her  through  a  disagreement 
with  the  principal.  This  disagreement  arose 
from  the  fact  that  Irina  was  to  have  delivered 
at  a  public  function  some  verses  in  French, 
complimentary  to  the  curator,  and  just  before 
the  performance  her  place  was  filled  by  another 
girl,  the  daughter  of  a  very  rich  spirit-contractor. 
The  princess  could  not  stomach  this  affront ; 
and  indeed  Irina  herself  never  forgave  the 
principal  for  this  act  of  injustice ;  she  had  been 
dreaming  beforehand  of  how  she  would   rise 

66 


SMOKE 

before  the  eyes  of  every  one,  attracting  universal 
attention,  and  would  deliver  her  speech,  and 
how  Moscow  would  talk  about  her  afterwards ! 
.  .  .  And,  indeed,  Moscow  would  have  talked 
about  her  afterwards.  She  was  a  tall,  slim  girl, 
with  a  somewhat  hollow  chest  and  narrow  un- 
formed shoulders,  with  a  skin  of  a  dead-white, 
rare  at  her  age,  and  pure  and  smooth  as  china, 
with  thick  fair  hair ;  there  were  darker  tresses 
mingled  in  a  very  original  way  with  the  light 
ones.  Her  features  —  exquisitely,  almost  too 
perfectly,  correct — had  not  yet  quite  lost  the 
innocent  expression  that  belongs  to  childhood  ; 
the  languid  curves  of  her  lovely  neck,  and  her 
smile  —  half-indifferent,  half- weary  —  betrayed 
the  nervous  temperament  of  a  delicate  girl ;  but 
in  the  lines  of  those  fine,  faintly-smiling  lips,  of 
that  small,  falcon,  slightly-narrow  nose,  there 
was  something  wilful  and  passionate,  something 
dangerous  for  herself  and  others.  Astounding, 
really  astounding  were  her  eyes,  dark  grey  with 
greenish  lights,  languishing,  almond-shaped  as 
an  Egyptian  goddess's,  with  shining  lashes  and 
bold  sweep  of  eyebrow.  There  was  a  strange 
look  in  those  eyes ;  they  seemed  looking  out 
intently  and  thoughtfully — looking  out  from 
some  unknown  depth  and  distance.  At  school, 
Irina  had  been  reputed  one  of  the  best  pupils 
for   intelligence   and   abilities,   but   of    uneven 

67 


SMOKE 

temper,  fond  of  power,  and  headstrong ;  one 
class-mistress  prophesied  that  her  passions 
would  be  her  ruin — ^vos  passions  vous  perdront^ , 
on  the  other  hand,  another  class-mistress  cen 
sured  her  for  coldness  and  want  of  feeling,  and 
called  her  *  une  jeune  fille  sans  coeur!  Irina's 
companions  thought  her  proud  and  reserved  : 
her  brothers  and  sisters  stood  a  little  in  awe  of 
her :  her  mother  had  no  confidence  in  her :  and 
her  father  felt  ill  at  ease  when  she  fastened  her 
mysterious  eyes  upon  him.  But  she  inspired  a 
feeling  of  involuntary  respect  in  both  her  father 
and  her  mother,  not  so  much  through  her 
qualities,  as  from  a  peculiar,  vague  sense  of 
expectations  which  she  had,  in  some  undefined 
way,  awakened  in  them. 

*  You  will  see,  Praskovya  Danilovna,'  said  the 
old  prince  one  day,  taking  his  pipe  out  of  his 
mouth, '  our  chit  of  an  Irina  will  give  us  all  a  lift 
in  the  world  yet' 

The  princess  got  angry,  and  told  her  husband 
that  he  made  use  of  '^  des  expressions  insuppor- 
tables ' ;  afterwards,  however,  she  fell  to  musing 
over  his  words,  and  repeated  through  her  teeth : 

'Well  .  .  and  it  would  be  a  good  thing  if 
we  did  get  a  lift' 

Irina  enjoyed  almost  unlimited  freedom  in 
her  parents'  house;  they  did  not  spoil  her, 
they  even  avoided  her  a  little,  but  they  did  not 

68 


SMOKE 

thwart  her,  and  that  was  all  she  wanted.  .  .  . 
Sometimes — during  some  too  humiliating  scene 
* — when  some  tradesman  would  come  and 
Keep  shouting,  to  be  heard  over  the  whole 
court,  that  he  was  sick  of  coming  after  his 
money,  or  their  own  servants  would  begin 
abusing  their  masters  to  their  face,  with  '  fine 
princes  you  are,  to  be  sure ;  you  may  whistle 
for  your  supper,  and  go  hungry  to  bed' — Irina 
would  not  stir  a  muscle ;  she  would  sit  un- 
moved, an  evil  smile  on  her  dark  face  ;  and  her 
smile  alone  was  more  bitter  to  her  parents  than 
any  reproaches,  and  they  felt  themselves  guilty 
— guilty,  though  guiltless — towards  this  being 
on  whom  had  been  bestowed,  as  it  seemed,  from 
her  very  birth,  the  right  to  wealth,  to  luxury, 
and  to  homage. 

Litvinov  fell  in  love  with  Irina  from  the 
moment  he  saw  her  (he  was  only  three  years 
older  than  she  was),  but  for  a  long  while  he 
failed  to  obtain  not  only  a  response,  but  even 
a  hearing.  Her  manner  to  him  was  even  over- 
cast with  a  shade  of  something  like  hostility  ; 
Jie  did  in  fact  wound  her  pride,  and  she  con- 
:ealed  the  wound,  and  could  never  forgive  it. 
He  was  too  young  and  too  modest  at  that 
cime  to  understand  what  might  be  concealed 
under  this  hostile,  almost  contemptuous  severity. 
Often,  forgetful  of  lectures   and  exercises,  he 

69 


SMOKE 

would  sit  and  sit  in  the  Osinins*  cheerless 
drawing-room,  stealthily  watching  Irina,  his 
heart  slowly  and  painfully  throbbing  and  suffo- 
cating him ;  and  she  would  seem  angry  or 
bored,  would  get  up  and  walk  about  the  room, 
look  coldly  at  him  as  though  he  were  a  table  or 
chair,  shrug  her  shoulders,  and  fold  her  arms. 
Or  for  a  whole  evening,  even  when  talking  with 
Litvinov,  she  would  purposely  avoid  looking  at 
him,  as  though  denying  him  even  that  grace. 
Or  she  would  at  last  take  up  a  book  and  stare 
at  it,  not  reading,  but  frowning  and  biting  her 
lips.  Or  else  she  would  suddenly  ask  her  father 
or  brother  aloud :  '  What 's  the  German  for 
patience  ? '  He  tried  to  tear  himself  away  from 
the  enchanted  circle  in  which  he  suffered  and 
struggled  impotently  like  a  bird  in  a  trap  ;  he 
went  away  from  Moscow  for  a  week.  He 
nearly  went  out  of  his  mind  with  misery  and 
dulness  ;  he  returned  quite  thin  and  ill  to  the 
Osinins'.  .  .  .  Strange  to  say,  Irina  too  had 
grown  perceptibly  thinner  during  those  days ; 
her  face  had  grown  pale,  her  cheeks  were  wan. 
.  .  .  But  she  met  him  with  still  greater  coldness, 
with  almost  malignant  indifference ;  as  though 
he  had  intensified  that  secret  wound  he  had 
dealt  at  her  pride.  .  .  .  She  tortured  him  in 
this  way  for  two  months.  Then  everything  was 
transformed  in  one  day.     It  was  as  though  love 

70 


SMOKE 

had  broken  into  flame  with  the  heat,  or  had 
dropped  down  from  a  storm-cloud.  One  day 
— long  will  he  remember  that  day — he  was  once 
more  sitting  in  the  Osinins'  drawing-room  at 
the  window,  and  was  looking  mechanically  into 
the  street.  There  was  vexation  and  weariness 
in  his  heart,  he  despised  himself,  and  yet  he 
could  not  move  from  his  place.  ...  He  thought 
that  if  a  river  ran  there  under  the  window,  he 
would  throw  himself  in,  with  a  shudder  of  fear, 
but  without  a  regret.  Irina  placed  herself  not 
far  from  him,  and  was  somehow  strangely  silent 
and  motionless.  For  some  days  now  she  had 
not  talked  to  him  at  all,  or  to  any  one  else  ;  she 
kept  sitting,  leaning  on  her  elbows,  as  though  she 
were  in  perplexity,  and  only  rarely  she  looked 
slowly  round.  This  cold  torture  was  at  last 
morfe  than  Litvinov  could  bear ;  he  got  up,  and 
without  saying  good-bye,  he  began  to  look  for 
his  hat.  '  Stay,'  sounded  suddenly,  in  a  soft 
whisper.  Litvinov's  heart  throbbed,  he  did  not 
at  once  recognise  Irina's  voice ;  in  that  one 
word,  there  was  a  ring  of  something  that  had 
never  been  in  it  before.  He  lifted  his  head  and 
was  stupefied  ;  Irina  was  looking  fondly — yes, 
fondly  at  him.  *  Stay,'  she  repeated  ;  '  don't  go. 
I  want  to  be  with  you.'  Her  voice  sank  still 
lower.  *  Don't  go.  ...  I  wish  it.'  Under- 
standing nothing,  not  fully  conscious  what  he 

7* 


>,  SMOKE 

was  doing,  he  drew  near  her,  stretched  out  his 
hands.  .  .  .  She  gave  him  both  of  hers  at 
once,  then  smiling,  flushing  hotly,  she  turned 
away,  and  still  smiling,  went  out  of  the  room. 
She  came  back  a  few  minutes  later  with  her 
youngest  sister,  looked  at  him  again  with  the 
same  prolonged  tender  gaze,  and  made  him  sit 
near  her.  ...  At  first  she  could  say  nothing;  she 
only  sighed  and  blushed ;  then  she  began,  timidly 
as  it  were,  to  question  him  about  his  pursuits, 
a  thing  she  had  never  done  before.  In  the 
evening  of  the  same  day,  she  tried  several  times 
to  beg  his  forgiveness  for  not  having  done  him 
justice  before,  assured  him  she  had  now  become 
quite  different,  astonished  him  by  a  sudden  out- 
burst of  republicanism  (he  had  at  that  time  a 
positive  hero-worship  for  Robespierre,  and  did 
not  presume  to  criticise  Marat  aloud),  and  only 
a  week  later  he  knew  that  she  loved  him.  Yes ; 
he  long  remembered  that  first  day  .  .  .  but  he 
did  not  forget  those  that  came  after  either — 
those  days,  when  still  forcing  himself  to  doubt, 
afraid  to  believe  in  it,  he  saw  clearly,  with 
transports  of  rapture,  almost  of  dread,  bliss  un- 
hoped for  coming  to  life,  growing,  irresistibly 
carrying  everything  before  it,  reaching  him  at 
last  Then  followed  the  radiant  moments  of 
first  love — moments  which  are  not  destined  to 
be,  and  could  not  fittingly  be,  repeated  in  the 

72 


SMOKE 

same  life.  Irina  became  all  at  once  as  docile 
as  a  lamb,  as  soft  as  silk,  and  boundlessly- 
kind  ;  she  began  giving  lessons  to  her  younger 
sisters — not  on  the  piano,  she  was  no  musician, 
but  in  French  and  English ;  she  read  their 
school-books  with  them,  and  looked  after  the 
housekeeping ;  everything  was  amusing  and 
interesting  to  her;  she  would  sometimes  chatter 
incessantly,  and  sometimes  sink  into  speechless 
tenderness ;  she  made  all  sorts  of  plans,  and 
was  lost  in  endless  anticipations  of  what  she 
would  do  when  she  was  married  to  Litvinov 
(they  never  doubted  that  their  marriage  would 
come  to  pass),  and  how  together  they  would  .  .  . 
'  Work  ? '  prompted  Litvinov.  .  .  .  '  Yes  ;  work,' 
repeated  Irina,  *  and  read  .  .  .  but  travel  before 
all  things.'  She  particularly  wanted  to  leave 
Moscow  as  soon  as  possible,  and  when  Litvinov 
reminded  her  that  he  had  not  yet  finished  his 
course  of  study  at  the  university,  she  always 
replied,  after  a  moment's  thought,  that  it  was 
quite  possible  to  finish  his  studies  at  Berlin 
or  .  .  .  somewhere  or  other.  Irina  was  very 
little  reserved  in  the  expression  of  her  feel- 
ings, and  so  her  relations  with  Litvinov  did 
not  long  remain  a  secret  from  the  prince 
and  princess.  Rejoice  they  could  not ;  but, 
taking  all  circumstances  into  consideration, 
they  saw  no  necessity  for  putting   a  veto  on 

73 


SMOKE 

it  at  once.  Litvinov's  fortune  was  consider- 
able. .  .  . 

*  But  his  family,  his  family !  *  .  .  .  protested 
the  princess.  'Yes,  his  family,  of  course/ replied 
the  prince  ;  *  but  at  least  he 's  not  quite  a 
plebeian  ;  and,  what 's  the  principal  point,  Irina, 
you  know,  will  not  listen  to  us.  Has  there  ever 
been  a  time  when  she  did  not  do  what  she 
chose  .-*  Vous  connaissez  sa  violence  I  Besides, 
there  is  nothing  fixed  definitely  yet.'  So 
reasoned  the  prince,  but  mentally  he  added, 
however :  *  Madame  Litvinov — is  that  all  ?  I 
had  expected  something  else.'  Irina  took  com- 
plete possession  of  her  {u^wxq  fiance,  and  indeed 
he  himself  eagerly  surrendered  himself  into  her 
hands.  It  was  as  if  he  had  fallen  into  a  rapid 
river,  and  had  lost  himself  .  .  .  And  bitter  and 
sweet  it  was  to  him,  and  he  regretted  nothing 
and  heeded  nothing.  To  reflect  on  the  signifi- 
cance and  the  duties  of  marriage,  or  whether 
he,  so  hopelessly  enslaved,  could  be  a  good 
husband,  and  what  sort  of  wife  Irina  would 
make,  and  whether  their  relations  to  one 
another  were  what  they  should  be — was  more 
than  he  could  bring  himself  to.  His  blood  was 
on  fire,  he  could  think  of  nothing,  only — to 
follow  her,  be  with  her,  for  the  future  without 
end,  and  then — let  come  what  may ! 

But    in   soite   of    the   complete   absence   of 


SMOKE 

opposition  on  Litvinov's  side,  and  the  wealth  of 
impulsive  tenderness  on  Irina's,  they  did  not 
get  on  quite  without  any  misunderstandings 
and  quarrels.  One  day  he  ran  to  her  straight 
from  the  university  in  an  old  coat  and  ink- 
stained  hands.  She  rushed  to  meet  him  with 
her  accustomed  fond  welcome ;  suddenly  she 
stopped  short 

'  You  have  no  gloves/  she  said  abruptly,  and 
added  directly  after  :  '  Fie  !  what  a  student  you 
are!' 

'You  are  too  particular,  Irina/  remarked 
Litvinov. 

*  You  are  a  regular  student/  she  repeated. 
*  Vous  fUetes  pas  distingu^^ ;  and  turning  her 
back  on  him  she  went  out  of  the  room.  It  is 
true  that  an  hour  later  she  begged  him  to  for- 
give her.  .  .  .  As  a  rule  she  readily  censured 
herself  and  accused  herself  to  him  ;  but,  strange 
to  say,  she  often  almost  with  tears  blamed  her- 
self for  evil  propensities  which  she  had  not,  and 
obstinately  denied  her  real  defects.  Another 
time  he  found  her  in  tears,  her  head  in  her 
hands,  and  her  hair  in  disorder ;  and  when,  all 
in  agitation,  he  asked  her  the  cause  of  her 
grief,  she  pointed  with  her  finger  at  her  own 
bosom  without  speaking.  Litvinov  gave  an 
involuntary  shiver.  '  Consumption  ! '  flashed 
through  his  brain,  and  he  seized  her  hand. 

75 


SMOKE 

*Are  you  ill,  Irina?'  he  articulated  in  a 
shaking  voice.  (They  had  already  begun  on 
great  occasions  to  call  each  other  by  their  first 
names.)     *  Let  me  go  at  once  for  a  doctor.' 

But  Irina  did  not  let  him  finish  ;  she  stamped 
with  her  foot  in  vexation. 

'  I  am  perfectly  well.  .  ,  .  but  this  dress  .  .  . 
don't  you  understand  ?  * 

'  What  is  it  ?  .  .  .  this  dress/  he  repeated  in 
bewilderment. 

'  What  is  it  ?  Why,  that  I  have  no  other, 
and  that  it  is  old  and  disgusting,  and  I  am 
obliged  to  put  on  this  dress  every  day  .  .  . 
even  when  you — Grisha — Grigory,  come  here. 
.  .  ,  You  will  leave  off  loving  me,  at  last,  seeing 
me  so  slovenly  ! ' 

*  For  goodness  sake,  Irina,  what  are  you  say- 
ing ?  That  dress  is  very  nice.  .  .  .  It  is  dear  to 
me  too  because  I  saw  you  for  the  first  time  in 
it,  darling.' 

Irina  blushed. 

*  Do  not  remind  me,  if  you  please,  Grigory 
Mihalovitch,  that  I  had  no  other  dress  even 
then.' 

*  But  I  assure  you,  Irina  Pavlovna,  it  suits 
you  so  exquisitely.' 

*  No,  it  is  horrid,  horrid,'  she  persisted, 
nervously  pulling  at  her  long,  soft  curls.  '  Ugh, 
this  poverty,  poverty  and  squalor  !     How  is  one 

76 


SMOKE 

to  escape  from  this  sordidness !  How  get  out 
of  this  squalor  ! ' 

Litvinov  did  not  know  what  to  say,  and 
slightly  turned  away  from  her. 

All  at  once  Irina  jumped  up  from  her  chair, 
and  laid  both  her  hands  on  his  shoulders. 

*  But  you  love  me,  Grisha  ?  You  love  me  ?  * 
she  murmured,  putting  her  face  close  to  him, 
and  her  eyes,  still  filled  with  tears,  sparkled  with 
the  light  of  happiness,  *  You  love  me,  dear,  even 
in  this  horrid  dress  ? ' 

Litvinov  flung  himself  on  his  knees  before 
her. 

*  Ah,  love  me,  love  me,  my  sweet,  my  saviour,' 
she  whispered,  bending  over  him. 

So  the  days  flew,  the  weeks  passed,  and 
though  as  yet  there  had  been  no  formal  declara- 
tion, though  Litvinov  still  deferred  his  demand 
for  her  hand,  not,  certainly,  at  his  own  desire, 
but  awaiting  directions^  from  Irina  (she  remarked 
sometimes  that  they  were  both  ridiculously 
young,  and  they  must  add  at  least  a  few  weeks 
more  to  their  years),  still  everything  was  moving 
to  a  conclusion,  and  the  future  as  it  came 
nearer  grew  more  and  more  clearly  defined, 
when  suddenly  an  event  occurred,  which  scat- 
tered all  their  dreams  and  plans  like  light 
roadside  dust. 


77 


VIII 

That  winter  the  court  visited  Moscow.  One 
festivity  followed  another  ;  in  its  turn  came 
the  customary  great  ball  in  the  Hall  of  Nobility. 
The  news  of  this  ball,  only,  it  is  true,  in  the 
form  of  an  announcement  in  the  Political 
Gazette^  reached  even  the  little  house  in  Dogs* 
Place.  The  prince  was  the  first  to  be  roused 
by  it ;  he  decided  at  once  that  he  must  not  fail 
to  go  and  take  Irina,  that  it  would  be  unpardon- 
able to  let  slip  the  opportunity  of  seeing  their 
sovereigns,  that  for  the  old  nobility  this  consti- 
tuted indeed  a  duty  in  its  own  way.  He  de- 
fended his  opinion  with  a  peculiar  warmth,  not 
habitual  in  him  ;  the  princess  agreed  with  him 
to  some  extent,  and  only  sighed  over  the  ex- 
pense ;  but  a  resolute  opposition  was  displayed 
by  Irina.  '  It  is  not  necessary,  I  will  not  go,' 
she  replied  to  all  her  parents'  arguments.  Her 
obstinacy  reached  such  proportions  that  the  old 
prince  decided  at  last  to  beg  Litvinov  to  try  to 
persuade  her,  by  reminding  her  among  other 

78 


SMOKE 

reasons  that  it  was  not  proper  for  a  young  girl 
to  avoid  society,  that  she  ought  to  '  have  this 
experience,'  that  no  one  ever  saw  her  anywhere, 
as   it  was.     Litvinov   undertook   to   lay   these 

*  reasons  '  before  her.  Irina  looked  steadily  and 
scrutinisingly  at  him,  so  steadily  and  scrutinis- 
ingly  that  he  was  confused,  and  then,  playing 
with  the  ends  of  her  sash,  she  said  calmly : 

*  Do  you  desire  it,  you  ? ' 

*Yes.  ...  I  suppose  so,'  replied  Litvinov 
hesitatingly.  *  I  agree  with  your  papa.  .  .  .  In- 
deed, why  should  you  not  go  ...  to  see  the 
world,  and  show  yourself,'  he  added  with  a 
short  laugh. 

'  To     show    myself,'    she     repeated    slowly. 

*  Very  well  then,  I  will  go.  .  .  .  Only  remember, 
it  is  you  yourself  who  desired  it' 

'  That's  to  say,  I .'  Litvinov  was  beginning. 

*  You  yourself  have  desired  it,'  she  interposed. 

*  And  here  is  one  condition  more ;  you  must 
promise  me  that  you  will  not  be  at  this  ball.' 

'  But  why  ? ' 

'  I  wish  it  to  be  so.' 

Litvinov  unclasped  his  hands. 

*  I  submit  .  .  .  but  I  confess  I  should  so  have 
enjoyed  seeing  you  in  all  your  grandeur,  wit- 
nessing the  sensation  you  are  certain  to  make. 
.  .  .  How  proud  I  should  be  of  you  ! '  he  added 
with  a  sigh. 

79 


SMOKE 

Irina  laughed. 

*  All  the  grandeur  will  consist  of  a  white 
frock,  and  as  for  the  sensation.  .  .  .  Well,  any 
way,  I  wish  it.' 

*  Irina,  darling,  you  seem  to  be  angry  ? ' 
Irina  laughed  again. 

*  Oh,  no !  I  am  not  angry.  Only,'  Grisha 
.  .  .  (She  fastened  her  eyes  on  him,  and  he 
thought  he  had  never  before  seen  such  an  ex- 
pression in  them.)  *  Perhaps,  it  must  be,'  she 
added  in  an  undertone. 

'But,  Irina,  you  love  me,  dear?* 

*  I  love  you,'  she  answered  with  almost  solemn 
gravity,  and  she  clasped  his  hand  firmly  like  a 
man. 

All  the  following  days  Irina  was  busily  occu- 
pied over  her  dress  and  her  coiffure  ;  on  the  day 
before  the  ball  she  felt  unwell,  she  could  not  sit 
still,  and  twice  she  burst  into  tears  in  solitude ; 
before  Litvinov  she  wore  the  same  uniform 
smile.  .  .  .  She  treated  him,  however,  with  her 
old  tenderness,  but  carelessly,  and  was  con- 
stantly looking  at  herself  in  the  glass.  On  the 
day  of  the  ball  she  was  silent  and  pale,  but  col- 
lected. At  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening  Litvinov 
came  to  look  at  her.  When  she  came  to  meet 
him  in  a  white  tarlatan  gown,  with  a  spray  of 
small  blue  flowers  in  her  slightly  raised  hair, 
he  almost  uttered  a  cry  ;  she  seemed  to  him  so 

80 


SMOKE 

lovely  and  stately  beyond  what  was  natural  to 
her  years.  '  Yes,  she  has  grown  up  since  this 
morning  ! '  he  thought,  *  and  how  she  holds  her- 
self! That's  what  race  does  ! '  Irina  stood  before 
him,  her  hands  hanging  loose,  without  smiles  or 
affectation,  and  looked  resolutely,  almost  boldly, 
not  at  him,  but  away  into  the  distance  straight 
before  her. 

'  You  are  just  like  a  princess  in  a  story  book,' 
said  Litvinov  at  last.  '  You  are  like  a  warrior 
before  the  battle,  before  victory.  .  .  .  You  did 
not  allow  me  to  go  to  this  ball,'  he  went  on, 
while  she  remained  motionless  as  before,  not 
because  she  was  not  listening  to  him,  but 
because  she  was  following  another  inner  voice, 
*  but  you  will  not  refuse  to  accept  and  take  with 
you  these  flowers  ?  * 

He  offered  her  a  bunch  of  heliotrope.  She 
looked  quickly  at  Litvinov,  stretched  out  her 
hand,  and  suddenly  seizing  the  end  of  the  spray 
which  decorated  her  hair,  she  said  : 

'  Do  you  wish  it,  Grisha  ?  Only  say  the 
word,  and  I  will  tear  off  all  this,  and  stop  at 
home.' 

Litvinov's  heart  seemed  fairly  bursting.  Irina's 
hand  had  already  snatched  the  spray.  .  .  . 

'  No,  no,  what  for  ? '  he  interposed  hurriedly, 
in  a  rush  of  generous  and  magnanimous  feel- 
ing, *  I  am  not  an  egoist.  .  .  ,  Why  should  I 

8i  F 


SMOKE 

restrict  your  freedom  .  .  .  when   I   know  that 
your  heart ' 

*  Well,  don't  come  near  me,  you  will  crush 
my  dress,'  she  said  hastily. 

Litvinov  was  disturbed. 

*  But  you  will  take  the  nosegay  ? '  he  asked. 

'  Of  course  ;  it  is  very  pretty,  and  I  love  that 
scent.     Merci — I  shall  keep  it  in  memory ' 

*  Of  your  first  coming  out,'  observed  Litvinov, 
*  your  first  triumph.' 

Irina  looked  over  her  shoulder  at  herself  in 
the  glass,  scarcely  bending  her  figure. 

'  And  do  I  really  look  so  nice  ?  You  are  not 
partial  ? ' 

Litvinov  overflowed  in  enthusiastic  praises. 
Irina  was  already  not  listening  to  him,  and 
holding  the  flowers  up  to  her  face,  she  was 
again  looking  away  into  the  distance  with  her 
strange,  as  it  were,  overshadowed,  dilated  eyes, 
and  the  ends  of  her  delicate  ribbons  stirred  by 
a  faint  current  of  air  rose  slightly  behind  her 
shoulders  like  wings. 

The  prince  made  his  appearance,  his  hair 
well  becurled,  in  a  white  tie,  and  a  shabby  black 
evening  coat,  with  the  medal  of  nobility  on  a 
Vladimir  ribbon  in  his  buttonhole.  After  him 
came  the  princess  In  a  china  silk  dress  of 
antique  cut,  and  with  the  anxious  severity  under 
which  mothers  try  to  conceal  their  agitation, 

82 


SMOKE 

Set  her  daughter  to  rights  behind,  that  is 
to  say,  quite  needlessly  shook  out  the  folds  of 
her  gown.  An  antiquated  hired  coach  with 
seats  for  four,  drawn  by  two  shaggy  hacks, 
crawled  up  to  the  steps,  its  wheels  grating  over 
the  frozen  mounds  of  unswept  snow,  and  a 
decrepit  groom  in  a  most  unlikely-looking 
livery  came  running  out  of  the  passage,  and 
with  a  sort  of  desperate  courage  announced 
that  the  carriage  was  ready.  .  .  .  After  giving 
a  blessing  for  the  night  to  the  children  left  at 
home,  and  enfolding  themselves  in  their  fur 
wraps,  the  prince  and  princess  went  out  to  the 
steps ;  Irina  in  a  little  cloak,  too  thin  and  too 
short — how  she  hated  the  little  cloak  at  that 
moment ! — followed  them  in  silence.  Litvinov 
escorted  them  outside,  hoping  for  a  last  look 
from  Irina,  but  she  took  her  seat  in  the  carriage 
without  turning  her  head. 

About  midnight  he  walked  under  the  win- 
dows of  the  Hall  of  Nobility.  Countless  lights 
of  huge  candelabra  shone  with  brilliant  radiance 
through  the  red  curtains  ;  and  the  whole  square, 
blocked  with  carriages,  was  ringing  with  the 
insolent,  festive,  seductive  strains  of  a  waltz  of 
Strauss.' 

The  next  day  at  one  o'clock,  Litvinov  betook 
himself  to  the  Osinins'.  He  found  no  one  at 
home   but   the   prince,  who   informed   him    at 

83 


SMOKE 

once  that  Irina  had  a  headache,  that  she  was  in 
bed,  and  would  not  get  up  till  the  evening,  that 
such  an  indisposition  was  however  little  to  be 
wondered  at  after  a  first  ball. 

*  C'est  tres  naturel,  vous  savez,  dans  les  jeunes 
fillesl  he  added  in  French,  somewhat  to  Lit- 
vinov's  surprise ;  the  latter  observed  at  the 
same  instant  that  the  prince  was  not  in  his 
dressing-gown  as  usual,  but  was  wearing  a  coat. 
*  And  besides,'  continued  Osinin,  '  she  may  well 
be  a  little  upset  after  the  events  of  yesterday ! ' 

*  Events  ? '  muttered  Litvinov. 

*  Yes,  yes,  events,  events,  de  vrais  evenements. 
You  cannot  imagine,  Grigory  Mihalovitch,  quel 
sticces  elle  a  eu  !  The  whole  court  noticed  her  ! 
Prince  Alexandr  Fedorovitch  said  that  her 
place  was  not  here,  and  that  she  reminded  him 
of  Countess  Devonshirse.  You  know  .  .  .  that 
.  .  .  celebrated.  .  .  .  And  old  Blazenkrampf 
declared  in  the  hearing  of  all,  that  Irina  was 
la  reine  dii  bal,  and  desired  to  be  introduced  to 
her  ;  he  was  introduced  to  me  too,  that 's  to  say, 
he  told  me  that  he  remembered  me  a  hussar, 
and  asked  me  where  I  was  holding  office  now. 
Most  entertaining  man  that  Count,  and  such  an 
adorateur  dii  beau  sexe !  But  that 's  not  all ; 
my  princess  .  .  .  they  gave  her  no  peace 
either:  Natalya  Nikitishna  herself  conversed 
with  her  .  .  .  what  more  could  we  have?    Irina 

84 


SMOKE 

danced  avec  tons  les  meilleurs  cavaliers ;  they 
kept  bringing  them  up  to  me.  ...  I  positively- 
lost  count  of  them.  Would  you  believe  it, 
they  were  all  flocking  about  us  in  crowds  ;  in 
the  mazurka  they  did  nothing  but  seek  her  out. 
One  foreign  diplomatist,  hearing  she  was  a 
Moscow  girl,  said  to  the  Tsar :  '  Sire,'  he  said, 
^  d^cidement  c'est  Moscou  qui  est  le  centre  de 
votre  empire  !'  and  another  diplomatist  added  : 
*  Oest  jine  vraie  r^voltition,  Sire — revHation  or 
n^volution  .  .  .  something  of  that  sort.  Yes, 
yes,  it  was.  I  tell  you  it  was  something  extra- 
ordinary.' 

*  Well,  and  Irina  Pavlovna  herself? '  inquired 
Litvinov,  whose  hands  and  feet  had  grown  cold 
hearing  the  prince's  speech,  '  did  she  enjoy  her- 
self, did  she  seem  pleased  ?  ' 

*  Of  course  she  enjoyed  herself ;  how  could 
^he  fail  to  be  pleased  ?  But,  as  you  know,  she 's 
not  to  be  seen  through  at  a  glance  !  Every  one 
was  saying  to  me  yesterday :  it  is  really  sur- 
prising !  jamais  on  7te  dirait  que  mademoiselle 
votre  fille  est  a  son  p7'emier  bal.  Count  Reisen- 
bach  among  the  rest  .  .  .  you  know  him  most 
likely.' 

*  No,  I  don't  know  him  at  all,  and  have  never 
heard  of  him.' 

*  My  wife's  cousin.' 

*  I  don't  know  him.' 

85 


SMOKE 

*  A  rich  man,  a  chamberlain,  h'ving  in  Peters- 
burg, in  the  swim  of  things  ;  in  Livonia  every- 
one is  in  his  hands.  Hitherto  he  has  neglected 
us  .  .  .  but  there,  I  don't  bear  him  ill-will  for 
that,  fai  rhumeur  facile^  comme  vous  savez. 
Well,  that 's  the  kind  of  man  he  is.  He  sat 
near  Irina,  conversed  with  her  for  a  quarter  of 
an  hour,  not  more,  and  said  afterwards  to  my 
princess  :  "  Ma  cousine,''  he  says,  "  voire  fille  est 
nne  perle  ;  dest  une  perfection^  every  one  is  con- 
gratulating me  on  such  a  niece.  .  .  ."  And 
afterwards  I  look  round — and  he  had  gone  up  to 
a  ...  a  very  great  personage,  and  was  talking, 
and  kept  looking  at  Irina  .  .  .  and  the  personage 
was  looking  at  her  too.'  .  .  » 

*  And  so  Irina  Pavlovna  will  not  appear  all 
day  ? '  Litvinov  asked  again. 

'  Quite  so  ;  her  head  aches  very  badly.  She 
told  me  to  greet  you  from  her,  and  thank  you 
for  your  flowers,  qii^on  a  trouve  charniant.  She 
needs  rest.  .  .  .  The  princess  has  gone  out 
on  a  round  of  visits  .  .  .  and  I  myself  .  .  .  you 
see.  .  .  .' 

The  prince  cleared  his  throat,  and  began  to 
fidget  as  though  he  were  at  a  loss  what  to  add 
further.  Litvinov  took  his  hat,  and  saying  he 
did  not  want  to  disturb  him,  and  would  call 
again  later  to  inquire  after  her  health,  he  went 
away. 

86 


SMOKE 

A  few  steps  from  the  Osinins*  house  he  saw 
an  elegant  carnage  for  two  persons  standing 
before  the  police  sentry-box.  A  groom  in 
livery,  equally  elegant,  was  bending  negligently 
from  the  box,  and  inquiring  of  the  Finnish 
police-sergeant  whereabouts  Prince  Pavel  Vassil- 
yevitch  Osinin  lived.  Litvinov  glanced  at  the 
carriage  ;  in  it  sat  a  middle-aged  man  of  bloated 
complexion,  with  a  wrinkled  and  haughty  face, 
a  Greek  nose,  and  an  evil  mouth,  muffled  in  a 
sable  wrap,  by  all  outward  signs  a  very  great 
man  indeed 


87 


IX 

LiTVlNOV  did  not  keep  his  promise  of  return- 
ing later ;  he  reflected  that  it  would  be  better 
to  defer  his  visit  till  the  following  day.  When 
he  went  into  the  too  familiar  drawing-room 
at  about  twelve  o'clock,  he  found  there  the  two 
youngest  princesses,  Viktorinka  ^nd  Kleopat- 
rinka.  He  greeted  them,  and  then  inquired, 
Was  Irina  Pavlovna  better,  and  could  he  see 
her?' 

*  Irinotchka  has  gone  away  with  mammy/ 
replied  Viktorinka ;  she  lisped  a  little,  but  was 
more  forward  than  her  sister. 

*  How  .  .  .  gone  away  ? '  repeated  Litvinov, 
and  there  was  a  sort  of  still  shudder  in  the  very 
bottom  of  his  heart.  *  Does  she  not,  does  she 
not  look  after  you  about  this  time,  and  give  you 
your  lessons  ? ' 

*  Irinotchka  will  not  give  us  any  lessons  any 
more  now,'  answered  Viktorinka.  *  Not  any 
more  now,'  Kleopatrinka  repeated  after  her. 

*  Is  your  papa  at  home  ? '  asked  Litvinov. 

88 


SMOKE 

*  Papa  is  not  at  home,'  continued  Viktorinka, 
'and  Irinotchka  is  not  well  ;  all  night  long  she 
was  crying  and  crying.  .  .  / 

*  Crying  ? ' 

*  Yes,  crying  .  .  .  Yegorovna  told  me,  and 
her  eyes  are  so  red,  they  are  quite  in-in- 
flamed. .  .  .' 

Litvinov  walked  twice  up  and  down  the  room 
shuddering  as  though  with  cold,  and  went  back 
to  his  lodging.  He  experienced  a  sensation 
like  that  which  gains  possession  of  a  man  when 
he  looks  down  from  a  high  tower ;  everything 
failed  within  him,  and  his  head  was  swimming 
slowly  with  ^  sense  of  nausea.  Dull  stupefac- 
tion, and  thoughts  scurrying  like  mice,  vague 
terror,  and  the  numbness  of  expectation,  and 
curiosity — strange,  almost  malignant — and  the 
weight  of  crushed  tears  in  his  heavy  laden 
breast,  on  his  lips  the  forced  empty  smile,  and 
a  meaningless  prayer — addressed  to  no  one.  .  .  . 
Oh,  how  bitter  it  all  was,  and  how  hideously 
degrading !  *  Irina  does  not  want  to  see  me,' 
was  the  thought  that  was  incessantly  revolving 
in  his  brain  ;  '  so  much  is  clear  ;  but  why  is  it  ? 
What  can  have  happened  at  that  ill-fated  ball } 
And  how  is  such  a  change  possible  all  at 
once  ?  So  suddenly.  .  .  .'  People  always  see 
death  coming  suddenly,  but  they  can  never  get 
accustomed  to  its  suddenness,  they  feel  it  sense- 

89 


SMOKE 

less.  'She  sends  no  message  for  me,  does  not 
want  to  explain  herself  to  me.  .  .  .' 

'Grigory  Mihalitch/  called  a  strained  voice 
positively  in  his  ear. 

Litvinov  started,  and  saw  before  him  his 
servant  with  a  note  in  his  hand.  He  recognised 
Irina's  writing.  .  .  .  Before  he  had  broken  the 
seal,  he  had  a  foreknowledge  of  woe,  and  bent 
his  head  on  his  breast  and  hunched  his  shoulders, 
as  though  shrinking  from  the  blow. 

He  plucked  up  courage  at  last,  and  tore  open 
the  envelope  all  at  once.  On  a  small  sheet  of 
notepaper  were  the  following  lines  : 

'Forgive  me,  Grigory  Mihalitch.  All  is 
over  between  us ;  I  am  going  away  to  Peters- 
burg. I  am  dreadfully  unhappy,  but  the  thing 
is  done.  It  seems  my  fate  ,  .  .  but  no,  I  do 
not  want  to  justify  myself  My  presentiments 
have  been  realised.  Forgive  me,  forget  me ; 
I  am  not  worthy  of  you. — Irina.  Be  magnani- 
mous :  do  not  try  to  see  me/ 

Litvinov  read  these  five  lines,  and  slowly 
dropped  on  to  the  sofa,  as  though  some  one  had 
dealt  him  a  blow  on  the  breast.  He  dropped 
the  note,  picked  it  up,  read  it  again,  whispered 
*  to  Petersburg,'  and  dropped  it  again  ;  that  was 
all.  There  even  came  upon  him  a  sense  of 
peace ;  he  even,  with  his  hands  thrown  behind 
him,  smoothed    the    pillow    under    his    head, 

90 


SMOKE 

*  Men  wounded  to  death  don't  fling  themselves 
about/  he  thought,  '  as  it  has  come,  so  it  has 
gone.  All  this  is  natural  enough  :  I  always 
expected  it.  .  .  /  (He  was  lying  to  himself; 
he    had    never    expected    anything     like     it.) 

*  Crying  ?  .  .  .  Was  she  crying  ?  .  .  .  What  was 
she  crying  for  ?  Why,  she  did  not  love  me ! 
But  all  that  is  easily  understood  and  in  accord- 
ance with  her  character.  She — she  is  not 
worthy  of  me.  .  .  .  That's  it!'  (He  laughed 
bitterly.)  *  She  did  not  know  herself  what 
power  was  latent  in  her, — well,  convinced  of  it 
iin  her  effect  at  the  ball,  was  it  likely  she  would 
stay  with  an  insignificant  student? — all  that's 
easily  understood.' 

But  then  he  remembered  her  tender  words, 
her  smile,  and  those  eyes,  those  never  to  be  for- 
gotten eyes,  which  he  would  never  see  again, 
which  used  to  shine  and  melt  at  simply  meeting 
his  eyes  ;  he  recalled  one  swift,  timorous,  burn- 
ing kiss — and  suddenly  he  fell  to  sobbing, 
sobbing  convulsively,  furiously,  vindictively ; 
turned  over  on  his  face,  and  choking  and 
stifling  with  frenzied  satisfaction  as  though 
thirsting  to  tear  himself  to  pieces  with  all  around 
him,  he  turned  his  hot  face  in  the  sofa  pillow, 
and  bit  it  in  his  teeth. 

Alas !  the  gentleman  whom  Litvinov  had 
seen  the  day  before  in  the  carriage  was  no  other 

91 


SMOKE 

than  the  cousin  of  the  Princess  Osinin,  the  rich 
chamberlain,  Count  Reisenbach.  Noticing  the 
sensation  produceti  by  Irina  on  certain  per- 
sonages of  the  highest  rank,  and  instantaneously 
reflecting  what  advantages  might  mil  etwas 
Accuratesse  be  derived  from  the  fact,  the  count 
made  his  plan  at  once  like  a  man  of  energy  and 
a  skilful  courtier.  He  decided  to  act  swiftly,  in 
Napoleonic  style.  *  I  will  take  that  original 
girl  into  my  house,'  was  what  he  meditated,  '  in 
Petersburg ;  I  will  make  her  my  heiress,  devil 
take  me,  of  my  whole  property  even  ;  as  I  have 
no  children.  She  is  my  niece,  and  my  countess 
is  dull  all  alone.  .  .  It's  always  more  agreeable 
to  have  a  pretty  face  in  one's  drawing-room. 
.  .  ,  Yes,  yes  ;  .  .  .  that 's  it ;  es  ist  eine  Idee,  es 
ist  eine  Idee  T  He  would  have  to  dazzle, 
bewilder,  and  impress  the  parents.  *  They  've 
not  enough  to  eat' — the  count  pursued  his 
reflection  when  he  was  in  the  carriage  and  on 
his  way  to  Dogs'  Place — *  so,  I  warrant,  they 
won't  be  obstinate.  They're  not  such  over- 
sentimental  folks  either.  I  might  give  them  a 
sum  of  money  down  into  the  bargain.  And 
she?  She  will  consent.  Honey  is  sweet — she 
had  a  taste  of  it  last  night.  It 's  a  whim  on  my 
part,  granted  ;  let  them  profit  by  it,  .  .  .  the 
fools.  I  shall  say  to  them  one  thing  and 
another  .  .  .  and  you  must  decide — otherwise 

92 


SMOKE 

I  shall  adopt  another  —  an  orphan  —  which 
would  be  still  more  suitable.  Yes  or  no — 
twenty- four  hours  I  fix  for  the  term  —  und 
dainit  Punctum! 

And  with  these  very  words  on  his  lips,  the 
count  presented  himself  before  the  prince, 
whom  he  had  forewarned  of  his  visit  the  evening 
before  at  the  ball.  On  the  result  of  this  visit  it 
seems  hardly  worth  while  to  enlarge  further. 
The  count  was  not  mistaken  in  his  prognosti- 
cations :  the  prince  and  princess  were  in  fact 
not  obstinate,  and  accepted  the  sum  of  money ; 
and  Irina  did  in  fact  consent  before  the  allotted 
term  had  expired.  It  was  not  easy  for  her  to 
break  off  her  relations  with  Litvinov  ;  she  loved 
him ;  and  after  sending  him  her  note,  she 
almost  kept  her  bed,  weeping  continually,  and 
grew  thin  and  wan.  But  for  all  that,  a  month 
later  the  princess  carried  her  off  to  Petersburg, 
and  established  her  at  the  count's  ;  committing 
her  to  the  care  of  the  countess,  a  very  kind- 
hearted  woman,  but  with  the  brain  of  a  hen, 
and  something  of  a  hen's  exterior. 

Litvinov  threw  up  the  university,  and  went 
home  to  his  father  in  the  country.  Little  by 
little  his  wound  healed.  At  first  he  had  no 
news  of  Irina,  and  indeed  he  avoided  all  con- 
versation that  touched  on  Petersburg  and 
Petersburg    society.      Later    on,    by    degrees, 

93 


SMOKfi 

rumours — not  evil  exactly,  but  curious — began 
to  circulate  about  her ;  gossip  began  to  be  busy 
about  her.  The  name  of  the  young  Princess 
Osinin,  encircled  in  splendour,  impressed  with 
quite  a  special  stamp,  began  to  be  more  and 
more  frequently  mentioned  even  in  provincial 
circles.  It  was  pronounced  with  curiosity, 
respect,  and  envy,  as  men  at  one  time  used  to 
mention  the  name  of  the  Countess  Vorotinsky. 
At  last  the  news  came  of  her  marriage.  But 
Litvinov  hardly  paid  attention  to  these  last 
tidings  ;  he  was  already  betrothed  to  Tatyana. 

Now,  the  reader  can  no  doubt  easily  under- 
stand exactly  what  it  was  Litvinov  recalled 
when  he  cried,  '  Can  it  be  she  ? '  and  therefore 
we  will  return  to  Baden  and  take  up  again  the 
broken  thread  of  our  story. 


94 


X 


LiTVlNOV  fell  asleep  very  late,  and  did  not 
sleep  long  ;  the  sun  had  only  just  risen  when  he 
got  out  of  bed.  The  summits  of  dark  moun- 
tains visible  from  his  windows  stood  out  in 
misty  purple  against  the  clear  sky.  '  How  cool 
it  must  be  there  under  the  trees  ! '  he  thought ; 
and  he  dressed  in  haste,  and  looked  with  in- 
difference at  the  bouquet  which  had  opened 
more  luxuriantly  after  the  night ;  he  took  a 
stick  and  set  off  towards  the  *  Old  Castle '  on 
the  famous  *  Cliffs.'  Invigorating  and  soothing 
was  the  caressing  contact  of  the  fresh  morning 
about  him.  He  drew  long  breaths,  and  stepped 
out  boldly ;  the  vigorous  health  of  youth  was 
throbbing  in  every  vein  ;  the  very  earth  seemed 
springy  under  his  light  feet.  With  every  step 
he  grew  more  light-hearted,  more  happy ;  he 
walked  in  the  dewy  shade  in  the  thick  sand  of 
the  little  paths,  beside  the  fir-trees  that  were 
fringed  with  the  vivid  green  of  the  spring  shoots 
at  the  end  of  every  twig.     *  How  jolly  it  is! '  he 

95 


SMOKE 

kept  repeating  to  himself.  Suddenly  he  heard 
the  sound  of  familiar  voices ;  he  looked  ahead 
and  saw  Voroshilov  and  Bambaev  coming  to 
meet  him.  The  sight  of  them  jarred  upon  him  ; 
he  rushed  away  like  a  school-boy  avoiding  his 
teacher,  and  hid  himself  behind  a  bush.  .  .  . 
'  My  Creator  ! '  he  prayed,  '  mercifully  remove 
my  countrymen  ! '  He  felt  that  he  would  not 
have  grudged  any  money  at  the  moment  if  only 
they  did  not  see  him.  .  .  .  And  they  actually 
did  not  see  him :  the  Creator  was  merciful  to 
him.  Voroshilov,  in  his  self-confident  military 
voice,  was  holding  forth  to  Bambaev  on  the 
various  phases  of  Gothic  architecture,  and 
Bambaev  only  grunted  approvingly ;  it  was 
obvious  that  Voroshilov  had  been  dinning  his 
phrases  into  him  a  long  while,  and  the  good- 
natured  enthusiast  was  beginning  to  be  bored. 
Compressing  his  lips  and  craning  his  neck, 
Litvinov  listened  a  long  while  to  their  retreating 
footsteps  ;  for  a  long  time  the  accents  of  in- 
structive discourse — now  guttural,  now  nasal — ■ 
reached  his  ears  ;  at  last,  all  was  still  again. 
Litvinov  breathed  freely,  came  out  of  his  ambush, 
and  walked  on. 

For  three  hours  he  wandered  about  the 
mountains.  Sometimes  he  left  the  path,  and 
jumped  from  rock  to  rock,  slipping  now  and 
then  on  the  smooth  moss ;  then  he  would  sit 

96 


SMOKE 

down  on  a  fragment  of  the  cliff  under  an  oak 
or  a  beech,  and  muse  on  pleasant  fancies  to 
the  never-ceasing  gurgle  of  the  little  rills  over- 
grown with  ferns,  the  soothing  rustle  of  the 
leaves,  and  the  shrill  notes  of  a  solitary  black- 
bird. A  light  and  equally  pleasant  drowsiness 
began  to  steal  over  him,  it  seemed  to  approach 
him  caressingly,  and  he  dropped  asleep  .  .  . 
but  suddenly  he  smiled  and  looked  round  ;  the 
gold  and  green  of  the  forest,  and  the  moving 
foliage  beat  down  softly  on  his  eyes — and  again 
he  smiled  and  again  closed  them.  He  began 
to  want  breakfast,  and  he  made  his  way  towards 
the  old  castle  where  for  a  few  kreutzers  he 
could  get  a  glass  of  good  milk  and  coffee.  But 
he  had  hardly  had  time  to  establish  himself  at 
one  of  the  little  white-painted  tables  set  on  the 
platform  before  the  castle,  when  the  heavy 
tramping  of  horses  was  heard,  and  three  open 
carriages  drove  up,  out  of  which  stepped  a  rather 
numerous  company  of  ladies  and  gentlemen.  .  . . 
Litvinov  at  once  recognised  them  as  Russians, 
though  they  were  all  talking  French  .  .  .  just 
because  they  were  all  talking  French.  The 
ladies'  dresses  were  marked  by  a  studied 
elegance;  the  gentlemen  wore  close-fitting  coats 
with  waists — which  is  not  altogether  usual  now- 
adays— grey  trousers  of  fancy  material,  and  very 
glossy  town  hats.    Anarrow  black  cravat  closely 

97  G 


SMOKE 

fettered  the  neck  of  each  of  these  gentlemen, 
and  something  military  was  apparent  in  their 
whole  deportment.  They  were,  in  fact,  military 
men ;  Litvinov  had  chanced  upon  a  picnic 
fparty  of  young  generals — persons  of  the  highest 
society,  of  weight  and  importance.  Their  im- 
portance was  clearly  expressed  in  everything: 
in  their  discreet  nonchalance,  in  their  amiably 
condescending  smiles,  in  the  intense  indifference 
of  their  expression,  the  effeminate  little  move- 
ments of  their  shoulders,  the  swing  of  the 
figure,  and  the  crook  of  the  knees ;  it  was 
expressed,  too,  in  the  sound  of  their  voices,  which 
seemed  to  be  affably  and  fastidiously  thanking 
a  subservient  multitude.  All  these  officers 
were  superlatively  washed  and  shaved,  and 
thoroughly  saturated  with  that  genuine  aroma 
of  nobility  and  the  Guards,  compounded  of 
the  best  cigar  smoke,  and  the  most  marvellous 
patchouli.  They  all  had  the  hands  too  of 
noblemen — white  and  large,  with  nails  firm  as 
ivory ;  their  moustaches  seemed  positively 
polished,  their  teeth  shone,  and  their  skin — rosy 
on  their  cheeks,  bluish  on  their  chins — was  most 
delicate  and  fine.  Some  of  the  young  generals 
were  frivolous,  others  were  serious ;  but  the 
stamp  of  the  best  breeding  was  on  all  of  them. 
Each  of  them  seemed  to  be  deeply  conscious 
of  his  own  dignity,  and  the  importance  of  his 


SMOKE 

own  future  part  in  the  government,  and  con- 
ducted himself  with  severity  and  ease,  with  a 
faint  shade  of  that  carelessness,  that  'deuce- 
take-it  '  air,  which  comes  out  so  naturally  during 
foreign  travel.  The  party  seated  themselves 
with  much  noise  and  ostentation,  and  called 
the  obsequious  waiters.  Litvinov  made  haste 
to  drink  off  his  glass  of  milk,  paid  for  it,  and 
putting  his  hat  on,  was  just  making  off  past  the 
party  of  generals.  .  .  . 

*  Grigory  Mihalitch,'  he  heard  a  woman's 
voice.     *  Don't  you  recognise  me  ? ' 

He  stopped  involuntarily.  That  voice.  .  .  . 
that  voice  had  too  often  set  his  heart  beating  in 
the  past.  .  .  .  He  turned  round  and  saw  Irina. 

She  was  sitting  at  a  table,  her  arms  folded  on 
the  back  of  a  chair  drawn  up  near ;  with  her 
head  bent  on  one  side  and  a  smile  on  her  face, 
she  was  looking  at  him  cordially,  almost  with 
delight. 

Litvinov  knew  her  at  once,  though  she  had 
changed  since  he  saw  her  that  last  time  ten 
years  ago,  though  she  had  been  transformed 
from  a  girl  into  a  woman.  Her  slim  figure  had 
developed  and  reached  its  perfection,  the  lines 
of  her  once  narrow  shoulders  now  recalled  the 
goddesses  that  stand  out  on  the  ceilings  of 
ancient  Italian  palaces.  But  her  eyes  remained 
the  same,  and  it  seemed  to  Litvinov  that  they 

99 


SMOKB 

were  looking  at  him  just  as  in  those  days  in  the 
little  house  in  Moscow. 

*  Irina  Pavlovna/  he  uttered  irresolutely. 

*  You  know  me  ?  How  glad  I  am !  how 
glad • 

She  stopped  short,  slightly  blushing,  and 
drew  herself  up. 

'  This  is  a  very  pleasant  meeting,'  she  con- 
tinued now  in  French.  *  Let  me  introduce  you 
to  my  husband.  Val^riefz,  Monsieur  Litvino%\ 
7in  ami  denfance\  Valerian  Vladimirovitch 
Ratmirov,  my  husband.' 

One  of  the  young  generals,  almost  the  most 
elegant  of  all,  got  up  from  his  seat,  and  with 
excessive  courtesy  bowed  to  Litvinov,  while  the 
rest  of  his  companions  faintly  knitted  their 
brows,  or  rather  each  of  them  withdrew  for  an 
instant  into  himself,  as  though  protesting  be- 
times against  any  contact  with  an  extraneous 
civilian,  and  the  other  ladies  taking  part  in  the 
picnic  thought  fit  to  screw  up  their  eyes  a  little 
and  simper,  and  even  to  assume  an  air  of  per- 
plexity. 

'  Have  you — er — been  long  in  Baden  ?'  asked 
General  Ratmirov,  with  a  dandified  air  utterly 
un-Russian.  He  obviously  did  not  know  what 
to  talk  about  with  the  friend  of  his  wife's  child- 
hood. 

*  No,  not  long ! '  replied  Litvinov. 

lOO 


SMOKE 

*  And  do  you  intend  to  stay  long  ?  *  pursued 
the  polite  general. 

*  I  have  not  made  up  my  mind  yet/ 

*  Ah !  that  is  very  delightful  .  .  .  very.' 

The  general  paused.  Litvinov,  too,  was 
speechless.  Both  held  their  hats  in  their 
hands  and  bending  forward  with  a  grin,  gazed 
at  the  top  of  each  other's  heads. 

*  Deux  gendarmes  un  beau  dinia7tchel  began 
humming — out  of  tune  of  course,  we  have  never 
come  across  a  Russian  nobleman  who  did  not 
sing  out  of  tune — a  dull-eyed  and  yellow-faced 
general,  with  an  expression  of  constant  irrita- 
bility on  his  face,  as  though  he  could  not  forgive 
himself  for  his  own  appearance.  Among  all  his 
companions  he  alone  had  not  the  complexion 
of  a  rose. 

'  But  why  don't  you  sit  down,  Grigory  Miha- 
litch,'  observed  Irina  at  last. 
Litvinov  obeyed  and  sat  down. 

*  /  say,  Valerieft,  give  me  some  firel  remarked 
in  English  another  general,  also  young,  but 
already  stout,  with  fixed  eyes  which  seemed 
staring  into  the  air,  and  thick  silky  whiskers, 
into  which  he  slowly  plunged  his  snow-white 
fingers.  Ratmirov  gave  him  a  silver  match- 
box. 

*"  Avez  vous  des  papirosf  asked  one  of  the 
ladies,  with  a  lisp. 

lOI 


SMOKE 

* De  vrais papelitos^  comtesse* 

*  Deux  gendarmes  un  beau  dimancke'  the  dull- 
eyed  general  hummed  again,  with  intense  exas- 
peration. 

*  You  must  be  sure  to  come  and  see  us/  Irina 
was  saying  to  Litvinov  meantime ;  *  we  are 
staying  at  the  Hotel  de  I'Europe.  From  four  to 
six  I  am  always  at  home.  We  have  not  seen 
each  other  for  such  a  long  time.' 

Litvinov  looked  at  Irina ;  she  did  not  drop 
her  eyes. 

*  Yes,  Irina  Pavlovna,  it  is  a  long  time — ever 
since  we  were  at  Moscow.' 

'  At  Moscow,  yes,  at  Moscow,'  she  repeated 
abruptly.  *  Come  and  see  me,  we  will  talk  and 
recall  old  times.  Do  you  know,  Grigory  Miha- 
litch,  you  have  not  changed  much.' 

'  Really  ?  But  you  have  changed,  Irina  Pav* 
lovna.' 

*  I  have  grown  older.' 

'  No,  I  did  not  mean  that.' 

*  Irene  ? '  said  a  lady  in  a  yellow  hat  and  with 
yellow  hair  in  an  interrogative  voice  after  some 
preliminary  whispering  and  giggling  with  the 
officer  sitting  near  her.     *  Irene  ? ' 

'  I  am  older,'  pursued  Irina,  without  answer- 
ing the  lady,  '  but  I  am  not  changed.  No,  no, 
I  am  changed  in  nothing.' 

*  Deux  gendarmes  un   beati  dimanche  I '   was 

I02 


SMOKE 

heard  again.  The  irritable  general  only  re- 
membered the  first  line  of  the  well-known 
ditty. 

'  It  still  pricks  a  little,  your  excellency/ 
observed  the  stout  general  with  the  whiskers, 
with  a  loud  and  broad  intonation,  apparently 
quoting  from  some  amusing  story,  well-known 
to  the  whole  deau  nionde^  and,  with  a  short 
wooden  laugh  he  again  fell  to  staring  into  the 
air.     All  the  rest  of  the  party  laughed  too. 

*  What  a  sad  dog  you  are,  Boris ! '  observed 
Ratmirov  in  an  undertone.  He  spoke  in  Eng- 
lish and  pronounced  even  the  name  '  Boris  '  as 
if  it  were  English. 

'' Irene  f    the    lady  in   the    yellow    hat  said 
inquiringly  for   the  third    time.      Irina  turned 
sharply  round  to  her. 
*     '  Eh  bien  ?  quoi  f  que  me  voulez-voiis  f ' 

*Je  vous  dirai  plus  tardl  replied  the  lady, 
mincing.  With  a  very  unattractive  exterior, 
she  was  for  ever  mincing  and  grimacing.  Some 
wit  said  of  her  that  she  '  minaudait  dans  le  videl 
*  grimaced  upon  the  desert  air.* 

Irina  frowned  and  shrugged  her  shoulders 
impatiently.  ^  Mais  que  fait  done  Monsieur 
Verdier  ?  Pour  quoi  ne  vient-il  pas  ? '  cried  one 
lady  with  that  prolonged  drawl  which  is  the 
peculiarity  of  the  Great  Russian  accent,  and 
is  so  insupportable  to  French  ears. 

103 


SMOKE 

*Ah,  voo,  ah,  voo,  mossoo  Verdevv,  mossoo 
Verdew,'  sighed  another  lady,  whose  birthplace 
was  Arzamass. 

*  Tranquillisez  -vous^  ntesdamesl  interposed 
Ratmirov.  'Monsieur  Verdier  m'a  promts  de 
venir  se  mettre  a  vos  pieds^ 

'  He,  he,  he  ! '  —  The  ladies  fluttered  their 
fans. 

The  waiter  brought  some  glasses  of  beer. 

'  Baierisch-Bierf  inquired  the  general  with 
whiskers,  assuming  a  bass  voice,  and  affecting 
astonishment — '  GtUen  MorgenJ 

'Well?  Is  Count  Pavel  still  there?'  one 
young  general  inquired  coldly  and  listlessly  of 
another. 

*  Yes,'  replied  the  other  equally  coldly,  '  Mais 
c'est  provisoire.  Serge^  they  say,  will  be  put  in 
his  place.' 

*  Aha  ! '  filtered  the  first  through  his  teeth. 
'  Ah,  yes,'  filtered  the  second. 

*  I  can't  understand,'  began  the  general  who 
had  hummed  the  song,  *  I  can't  understand 
what  induced  Paul  to  defend  himself — to 
bring  forward  all  sorts  of  reasons.  Certainly, 
he  crushed  the  merchant  pretty  well,  il  lui  a 
fait  rendre  gorge  .  .  .  well,  and  what  of  it  ?  He 
may  have  had  his  own  motives.' 

'  He  was  afraid  ...  of  being  shown  up  in  the 
newspapers/  muttered  some  one. 

104 


SMOKE 

The  irritable  general  grew  hot. 

*  Well,  it  is  too  much  !  Newspapers !  Shown 
up !  If  it  depended  on  me,  I  would  not  let 
anything  be  printed  in  those  papers  but  the 
taxes  on  meat  or  bread,  and  announcements  of 
sales  of  boots  or  furs/ 

'  And  gentlemen's  properties  up  for  auction,' 
put  in  Ratmirov. 

*  Possibly  under  present  circumstances.  .  .  . 
What  a  conversation,  though,  in  Baden  au  Vieux- 
Chdteau^ 

*  Mais  pas  du  tout  I  pas  du  tout  !*  replied  the 
lady  in  the  yellow  hat,'  f  adore  les  questions 
politique  s! 

'  Madame  a  raisonl  interposed  another  gen- 
eral with  an  exceedingly  pleasant  and  girlish- 
looking  face.  *  Why  should  we  avoid  those 
questions  .  .  .  even  in  Baden?' 

As  he  said  these  words  he  looked  urbanely 
at  Litvinov  and  smiled  condescendingly.  *  A 
man  of  honour  ought  never  under  any  circum- 
stances to  disown  his  convictions..  Don't  you 
think  so  ? ' 

*  Of  course,'  rejoined  the  irritable  general, 
darting  a  look  at  Litvinov,  and  as  it  were  in- 
directly attacking  him,  *but  I  don't  see  the 
necessity  .  .  .' 

*  No,  no,'  the  condescending  general  inter- 
posed with   the   same   mildness,  'your  friend, 

105 


SMOKE 

Valerian  Vladimirovitch,  just  referred  to  the  sale 
of  gentlemen's  estates.  Well?  Is  not  that  a  fact?* 

'  But  it 's  impossible  to  sell  them  nowadays  ; 
nobody  wants  them  ! '  cried  the  irritable  general. 

'  Perhaps  .  .  .  perhaps.  For  that  very  reason 
we  ought  to  proclaim  that  fact  .  .  .  that  sad 
fact  at  every  step.  We  are  ruined  .  .  .  very 
good  ;  we  are  beggared  .  .  .  there 's  no  disput- 
ing about  that ;  but  we,  the  great  owners,  we 
still  represent  a  principle  .  .  .  un  principe.  To 
preserve  that  principle  is  our  duty.  Pardon^ 
madame^  I  think  you  dropped  your  handker- 
chief. When  some,  so  to  say,  darkness  has 
come  over  even  the  highest  minds,  we  ought 
submissively  to  point  out  (the  general  held  out 
his  finger)  with  the  finger  of  a  citizen  the  abyss 
to  which  everything  is  tending.  We  ought  to 
warn,  we  ought  to  say  with  respectful  firmness, 
'turn  back,  turn  back.  .  ,  .  That  is  what  we 
ought  to  say.' 

'  There 's  no  turning  back  altogether,  though/ 
observed  Ratmirov  moodily. 

The  condescending  general  only  grinned. 

'Yes,  altogether,  altogether,  tnon  tres  cher, 
The  further  back  the  better.' 

The  general  again  looked  courteously  at 
Litvinov.     The  latter  could  not  stand  it. 

*  Are  we  to  return  as  far  as  the  Seven  Boyars, 
your  excellency  ?  * 

io6 


SMOKE 

*  Why  not  ?  I  express  my  opinion  without 
hesitation  ;  we  must  undo  .  .  .  yes  .  .  .  undo 
all  that  has  been  done.' 

*  And  the  emancipation  of  the  serfs/ 

*And  the  emancipation  ...  as  far  as  that 
is  possible.  On  est  patriate  ou  on  ne  Vest  pas. 
"  And  freedom  ? "  they  say  to  me.  Do  you 
suppose  that  freedom  is  prized  by  the  people  ? 
Ask  them ' 

'Just  try/  broke  in  Litvinov,  'taking  that 
freedom  away  again.' 

*  Comment  nommez-vous  ce  monsieur  ? '  whis- 
pered the  general  to  Ratmirov. 

'  What  are  you  discussing  here  ? '  began  the 
stout  general  suddenly.  He  obviously  played 
the  part  of  the  spoilt  child  of  the  party.  '  Is  it  all 
about  the  newspapers  ?  About  penny-a-liners  ? 
Let  me  tell  you  a  little  anecdote  of  what  hap- 
pened to  me  with  a  scribbling  fellow — such  a 
lovely  thing.  I  was  told  he  had  written  a  libel  on 
me.  Well,  of  course,  I  at  once  had  him  brought 
before  me.  They  brought  me  the  penny-a-liner. 
*"How  was  it,"  said  I,  "my  dear  chap,  you 
came  to  write  this  libel  ?  Was  your  patriotism 
too  much  for  you  ?  "  "  Yes,  it  was  too  much,"  says 
he.  "  Well,"  says  I,  "  and  do  you  like  money?  " 
"  Yes,"  says  he.  Then,  gentlemen,  I  gave  him 
the  knob  of  my  cane  to  sniff  at.  "  And  do  you 
like  that,  my  angel  ?  "     "  No,"  says  he,  "  I  don't 

107 


SMOKE 

like  that."  "  But  sniff  it  as  you  ought,"  says  I, 
"  my  hands  are  clean."  "  I  don't  like  it,"  says  he, 
"  and  that 's  all."  "  But  I  like  it  very  much,  my 
angel,"  says  I,  "  though  not  for  myself.  Do  you 
understand  that  allegory,  my  treasure  ?  "  "Yes," 
says  he.  "  Then  mind  and  be  a  good  boy  for  the 
future,  and  now  here 's  a  rouble  sterling  for  you ; 
go  away  and  be  grateful  to  me  night  and  day," 
and  so  the  scribbling  chap  went  off.' 

The  general  burst  out  laughing  and  again 
every  one  followed  his  example — every  one 
except  Irina,  who  did  not  even  smile  and  looked 
darkly  at  the  speaker. 

The  condescending  general  slapped  Boris  on 
the  shoulder. 

'  That 's  all  your  invention,  O  friend  of  my 
bosom.  .  .  .  You  threatening  any  one  with  a 
stick.  .  .  .  You  haven't  got  a  stick.  Oest  pour 
faire  rire  ces  dames.  For  the  sake  of  a  good 
story.  But  that 's  not  the  point.  I  said 
just  now  that  we  must  turn  back  completely. 
Understand  me.  I  am  not  hostile  to  so-called 
progress,  but  all  these  universities  and  semi- 
naries, and  popular  schools,  these  students, 
priests'  sons,  and  commoners,  all  these  small 
fry,  tout  ce  fond  du  sac^  la  petite  prop7'iete, 
pire  que  le  proletariat  (the  general  uttered  this 
in  a  languishing,  almost  faint  voice)  voild  ce  qui 
m'effraie  .  ,  ,  that's  where  one  ought  to  draw 

io8 


SMOKE 

the  line,  and  make  other  people  draw  it  too.* 
(Again  he  gave  Litvinov  a  genial  glance.)  '  Yes, 
one  must  draw  the  line.  Don't  forget  that 
among  us  no  one  makes  any  demand,  no  one  is 
asking  for  anything.  Local  government,  for 
instance — who  asks  for  that  ?  Do  you  ask  for 
it  ?  or  you,  or  you  ?  or  you,  viesdames  ?  You 
rule  not  only  yourselves  but  all  of  us,  you  know.' 
(The  general's  handsome  face  was  lighted  up  by 
a  smile  of  amusement.)  '  My  dear  friends,  why 
should  we  curry  favour  with  the  multitude. 
You  like  democracy,  it  flatters  you,  and  serves 
your  ends  .  .  .  but  you  know  it 's  a  double 
weapon.  It  is  better  in  the  old  way,  as  before 
...  far  more  secure.  Don't  deign  to  reason 
with  the  herd,  trust  in  the  aristocracy,  in  that 
alone  is  power.  .  .  .  Indeed  it  will  be  better. 
And  progress  ...  I  certainly  have  nothing 
against  progress.  Only  don't  give  us  lawyers 
and  sworn  juries  and  elective  officials  .  .  .  only 
don't  touch  discipline,  discipline  before  all  things 
— you  may  build  bridges,  and  quays,  and  hospi- 
tals, and  why  not  light  the  streets  with  gas  ? ' 

*  Petersburg  has  been  set  on  fire  from  one 
end  to  the  other,  so  there  you  have  your  pro- 
gress ! '  hissed  the  irritable  general. 

'  Yes,  you  're  a  mischievous  fellow,  I  can  see/ 
said  the  stout  general,  shaking  his  head  lazily ; 
*you  would  do  for  a  chief- prosecutor,  but  in  my 

109 


SMOKE 

opinion  avec  Orphee  aux  enfers  le  progrh  a  dit 
son  dernier  mot! 

*  Vous  dites  toujours  des  bitisesl  giggled  the 
lady  from  Arzamass. 

The  general  looked  dignified. 

*  Je  ne  suis  jamais  plus  s^rieux^  madame,  que 
quandje  dis  des  betises! 

'Monsieur  Verdier  has  uttered  that  very 
phrase  several  times  already,'  observed  Irina  in 
a  low  voice. 

*  De  la  poigne  et  des  formes^  cried  the  stout 
general,  *  de  la  poigne  surtout.  And  to  trans- 
late into  Russian  :  be  civil  but  don't  spare 
your  fists.' 

*  Ah,  you  're  a  rascal,  an  incorrigible  rascal,* 
interposed  the  condescending  general.  ^  Mes- 
dames,  don't  listen  to  him,  please.  A  barking 
dog  does  not  bite.  He  cares  for  nothing  but 
flirtation.' 

*  That's  not  right,  though,  Boris,'  began 
Ratmirov,  after  exchanging  a  glance  with  his 
wife,  '  it 's  all  very  well  to  be  mischievous,  but 
that's  going  too  far.  Progress  is  a  phenome- 
non of  social  life,  and  this  is  what  we  must  not 
forget ;  it 's  a  symptom.  It 's  what  we  must 
watch.' 

*  All  right,  I  say,'  observed  the  stout  general, 
wrinkling  up  his  nose  ;  *  we  all  know  you  are 
aiming  at  the  ministry.' 

no 


SMOKE 

*  Not  at  all  .  .  .  the  ministry  indeed !  But 
really  one  can't  refuse  to  recognise  things.' 

Boris  plunged  his  fingers  again  into  his 
whiskers,  and  stared  into  the  air. 

*  Social  life  is  very  important,  because  in  the 
development  of  the  people,  in  the  destinies,  so 
to  speak,  of  the  country ' 

*  Val^rienJ  interrupted  Boris  reprovingly, 
*  il y  a  des  dames  ici.  I  did  not  expect  this  of 
you,  or  do  you  want  to  get  on  to  a  committee  ? ' 

'  But  they  are  all  closed  now,  thank  God,'  put 
in  the  irritable  general,  and  he  began  humming 
again  '  Deux  gendarmes  un  beau  dimanche* 

Ratmirov  raiseda  cambric  handkerchief  to  his 
nose  and  gracefully  retired  from  the  discussion  ; 
the  condescending  general  repeated  *  Rascal ! 
rascal ! '  but  Boris  turned  to  the  lady  who 
'  grimaced  upon  the  desert  air '  and  without 
lowering  his  voice,  or  a  change  in  the  expression 
of  his  face,  began  to  ply  her  with  questions  as  to 
when  *  she  would  reward  his  devotion,'  as  though 
he  were  desperately  in  love  with  her  and  suffer- 
ing tortures  on  her  account. 

At  every  moment  during  this  conversation  Lit- 
vinov  felt  more  and  more  ill  at  ease.  His  pride, 
his  clean  plebeian  pride,  was  fairly  in  revolt.        i 

What  had  he,   the   son  of  a   petty   official,-! 
in  common    with  these  military   aristocrats  of 
Petersburg  ?     He  loved  everything  they  hated  ; 

ill 


SMOKE 

he  hated  everything  they  loved  ;  he  was  only 
too  vividly  conscious  of  it,  he  felt  it  in  every 
part  of  his  being.  Their  jokes  he  thought  dull, 
their  tone  intolerable,  every  gesture  false  ;  in  the 
very  smoothness  of  their  speeches  he  detected 
a  note  of  revolting  contemptuousness — and  yet 
he  was,  as  it  were,  abashed  before  them,  before 
these  creatures,  these  enemies.  *  Ugh !  how 
disgusting  !  I  am  in  their  way,  I  am  ridiculous 
to  them,'  was  the  thought  that  kept  revolving 
in  his  head.  '  Why  am  I  stopping  ?  Let  me 
escape  at  once,  at  once.'  Irina's  presence  could 
not  retain  him  ;  she,  too,  aroused  melancholy 
emotions  in  him.  He  got  up  from  his  seat  and 
began  to  take  leave. 

'You  are  going  already?'  said  Irina,  but 
after  a  moment's  reflection  she  did  not  press 
him  to  stay,  and  only  extracted  a  promise  from 
him  that  he  would  not  fail  to  come  and  see  her. 
General  Ratmirov  took  leave  of  him  with  the 
same  refined  courtesy,  shook  hands  with  him 
and  accompanied  him  to  the  end  of  the  plat- 
form. .  .  .  But  Litvinov  had  scarcely  had  time 
to  turn  round  the  first  bend  in  the  road  when 
he  heard  a  general  roar  of  laughter  behind  him. 
This  laughter  had  no  reference  to  him,  but  was 
occasioned  by  the  long-expected  Monsieur 
Verdier,  who  suddenly  made  his  appearance  on 
the  platform,  in  a  Tyrolese  hat,  and  blue  blouse, 

112 


SMOKE 

riding  a  donkey,  but  the  blood  fairly  rushed 
into  Litvinov's  cheeks,  and  he  felt  intense 
bitterness :  his  tightly  compressed  lips  seemed 
as  though  drawn  by  wormwood.  *  Despicable, 
vulgar  creatures,'  he  muttered,  without  reflect- 
ing that  the  few  minutes  he  had  spent  in  their 
company  had  not  given  him  sufficient  ground 
for  such  severe  criticism.  And  this  was  the 
world  into  which  Irina  had  fallen,  Irina,  once 
his  Irina !  In  this  world  she  moved,  and  lived, 
and  reigned  ;  for  it,  she  had  sacrificed  her  per- 
sonal dignity,  the  noblest  feelings  of  her  heart 
...  It  was  clearly  as  it  should  be ;  it  was  clear 
that  she  had  deserved  no  better  fate !  How 
glad  he  was  that  she  had  not  thought  of 
questioning  him  about  his  intentions !  He 
might  have  opened  his  heart  before  '  them  '  in 
'  their '  presence.  .  .  .  '  For  nothing  in  the 
world  !  never  ! '  murmured  Litvinov,  inhaling 
deep  draughts  of  the  fresh  air  and  descending 
the  road  towards  Baden  almost  at  a  run.  He 
thought  of  his  betrothed,  his  sweet,  good, 
sacred  Tatyana,  and  how  pure,  how  noble,  how 
true  she  seemed  to  him.  With  what  unmixed 
tenderness  he  recalled  her  features,  her  words, 
her  very  gestures  .  .  .  with  what  impatience 
he  looked  forward  to  her  return. 

The    rapid     exercise      soothed     his    nerves. 
Returning  home  he  sat  down  at  the  table  and 

113  H 


SMOKE 

took  up  a  book ;  suddenly  he  let  it  fall,  even  | 
with  a  shudder.  .  .  What  had  happened  to 
him?  Nothing  had  happened,  but  Irina  .  .  . 
Irina.  .  .  .  All  at  once  his  meeting  with  her 
seemed  something  marvellous,  strange,  extra- 
ordinary. Was  it  possible  ?  he  had  met,  he 
had  talked  with  the  same  Irina.  .  .  .  And  why 
was  there  no  trace  in  her  of  that  hateful  world- 
liness  which  was  so  sharply  stamped  upon  all 
these  others.  Why  did  he  fancy  that  she 
seemed,  as  it  were,  weary,  or  sad,  or  sick  of  her 
position  ?  She  was  in  their  camp,  but  she  was 
not  an  enemy.  And  what  could  have  impelled 
her  to  receive  him  joyfully,  to  invite  him  to  see 
her? 

Litvinov  started.  *  O  Tanya,  Tanya  ! '  he 
cried  passionately,  '  you  are  my  guardian 
angel,  you  only,  my  good  genius.  I  love  you 
only  and  will  love  you  for  ever.  And  I  will 
not  go  to  see  her.  .  Forget  her  altogether  !  Let 
her  amuse  herself  with  her  generals.'  Litvinov 
set  to  his  book  again. 


T14 


XI 

LiTVINOV  took  up  his  book  again,  but  he 
could  not  read.  He  went  out  of  the  house, 
walked  a  little,  listened  to  the  music,  glanced 
in  at  the  gambling,  returned  again  to  his  room, 
and  tried  again  to  read — still  without  success. 
The  time  seemed  to  drag  by  with  peculiar 
dreariness.  Pishtchalkin,  the  well-intentioned 
peaceable  mediator,  came  in  and  sat  with  him 
for  three  hours.  He  talked,  argued,  stated 
questions,  and  discoursed  intermittently,  first 
of  elevated,  and  then  of  practical  topics,  and 
succeeded  in  diffusing  around  him  such  an 
atmosphere  of  dulness  that  poor  Litvinov  was 
ready  to  cry.  In  raising  dulness — agonising, 
chilling,  helpless,  hopeless  dulness — to  a  fine 
art,  Pishtchalkin  was  absolutely  unrivalled  even 
among  persons  of  the  highest  morality,  who 
are  notoriously  masters  in  that  line.  The  mere 
sight  of  his  well-cut  and  well-brushed  head,  his 
clear  lifeless  eyes,  his  benevolent  nose,  produced 
an  involuntary  despondency,  and  his  deliberate, 

"5 


SMOKE 

drowsy,  lazy  tone  seemed  to  have  been  created 
only  to  state  with  conviction  and  kicidity  such 
sententious  truths  as  that  twice  two  makes  four 
and  not  five  or  three,  that  water  is  liquid,  and 
benevolence  laudable  ;  that  to  the  private  in- 
dividual, no  less  than  to  the  state,  and  to  the 
state  no  less  than  to  the  private  individual, 
credit  is  absolutely  indispensable  for  financial 
operations.  And  with  all  this  he  was  such  an 
excellent  man  !  But  such  is  the  sentence  the 
fates  have  passed  on  Russia  ;  among  us,  good 
men  are  dull.  Pishtchalkin  retreated  at  last ; 
he  was  replaced  by  Bindasov,  who,  without 
any  beating  about  the  bush,  asked  Litvinov 
with  great  effrontery  for  a  loan  of  a  hundred 
guldens,  and  the  latter  gave  it  him,  in  spite  of 
the  fact  that  Bindasov  was  not  only  unattractive, 
but  even  repulsive  to  him,  that  he  knew  for 
certain  that  he  would  never  get  his  money 
back  ;  and  was,  besides,  himself  in  need  of  it. 
What  made  him  give  him  the  money  then,  the 
reader  will  inquire.  Who  can  tell  !  That  is 
another  Russian  weakness.  Let  the  reader  lay 
his  hand  on  his  heart  and  remember  how  many 
acts  in  his  own  life  have  had  absolutely  no 
other  reason.  And  Bindasov  did  not  even 
thank  Litvinov  ;  he  asked  for  a  glass  of  red 
Baden  wine,  and  without  wiping  his  lips  de- 
parted, loudly  and  offensively  tramping  with  his 

ii6 


ii 


SMOKE 

boots.  And  how  vexed  Litvinov  was  with  him- 
self already,  as  he  watched  the  red  nape  of  the 
retreating  sharper's  neck  !  Before  evening  he 
received  a  letter  from  Tatyana  in  which  she 
informed  him  that  as  her  aunt  was  not  well, 
she  could  not  come  to  Baden  for  five  or  six 
days.  This  news  had  a  depressing  influence 
on  Litvinov  ;  it  increased  his  vexation,  and  he 
went  to  bed  early  in  a  disagreeable  frame  of 
mind.  The  following  day  turned  out  no  better, 
if  not  worse,  than  the  preceding.  From  early 
morning  Litvinov's  room  was  filled  with  his 
own  countrymen ;  Bambaev,  Voroshilov,  Pisht- 
chalkin,  the  two  officers,  the  two  Heidelberg 
students,  all  crowded  in  at  once,  and  yet  did 
not  go  away  right  up  till  dinner  time,  though 
they  had  soon  said  all  they  had  to  say  and 
were  obviously  bored.  They  simply  did  not 
know  what  to  do  with  themselves,  and  having 
got  into  Litvinov's  lodgings  they  '  stuck  '  there, 
as  they  say.  First  they  discussed  the  fact  that 
Gubaryov  had  gone  back  to  Heidelberg,  and  that 
they  would  have  to  go  after  him  ;  then  they 
philosophised  a  little,  and  touched  on  the 
Polish  question ;  then  they  advanced  to  re- 
flections on  gambling  and  cocoites,  and  fell  to 
repeating  scandalous  anecdotes ;  at  last  the 
conversation  sank  into  a  discussion  of  all  sorts 
of  *  strong  men '  and  monsters  of  obesity  and 

117 


SMOKE 

gluttony.  First,  they  trotted  out  all  the  ancient 
stories  of  Lukin,  of  the  deacon  who  ate  no  less 
than  thirty-three  herrings  for  a  wager,  of  the 
Uhlan  colonel,  Ezyedinov,  renowned  for  his 
corpulence,  and  of^the  soldier  who  broke  the 
shin-bone  on  his  own  forehead  ;  then  followed 
unadulterated  lying.  _  Pishtchalkin  himself  re- 
lated with  a  yawn  that  he  knew  a  peasant 
woman  in  Little  Russia,  who  at  the  time  of 
her  death  had  proved  to  weigh  half  a  ton  and 
some  pounds,  and  a  landowner  who  had  eaten 
three  geese  and  a  sturgeon  for  luncheon  ;  Bam- 
baev  suddenly  fell  into  an  ecstatic  condition, 
and  declared  he  himself  was  able  to  eat  a 
whole  sheep,  '  with  seasoning '  of  course  ;  and 
Voroshilov  burst  out  with  something  about  a 
comrade,  an  athletic  cadet,  so  grotesque  that 
every  one  was  reduced  to  silence,  and  after  look- 
ing at  each  other,  they  took  up  their  hats,  and  the 
party  broke  up.  Litvinov,  when  he  was  left 
alone,  tried  to  occupy  himself,  but  he  felt  just  as 
if  his  head  was  full  of  smouldering  soot ;  he  could 
do  nothing  that  was  of  any  use,  and  the  evening 
too  was  wasted.  The  next  morning  he  was  just 
preparing  for  lunch,  when  some  one  knocked  at 
his  door.  *  Good  Lord,'  thought  Litvinov,  *  one 
of  yesterday's  dear  friends  again,'  and  not  with- 
out some  trepidation  he  pronounced  : 
*  Herein  / ' 

ii8 


SMOKED 

The  door  opened  slowly  and  in  walked 
Potugin.  Litvinov  was  exceedingly  delighted 
to  see  him. 

*  This  is  nice ! '  he  began,  warmly  shaking 
hands  with  his  unexpected  visitor,  '  this  is  good 
of  you !  I  should  certainly  have  looked  you 
up  myself,  but  you  would  not  tell  me  where 
you  live.  Sit  down,  please,  put  down  your 
hat.     Sit  down.' 

Potugin  made  no  response  to  Litvinov's 
warm  welcome,  and  remained  standing  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  shifting  from  one  leg  to 
the  other ;  he  only  laughed  a  little  and  shook 
his  head.  Litvinov's  cordial  reception  obviously 
touched  him,  but  there  was  some  constraint  in 
the  expression  of  his  face. 

'There's  .  .  .  some  little  misunderstanding,' 
he  began,  not  without  hesitation.  *  Of  course, 
it  would  always  be  ...  a  pleasure  ...  to  me 
.  .  .  but  I  have  been  sent  .  .  .  especially  to 
you.' 

'  That 's  to  say,  do  you  mean,'  commented 
Litvinov  in  an  injured  voice,  '  that  you  would 
not  have  come  to  me  of  your  own  accord  ? ' 

'  Oh,  no,  .  .  .  indeed !  But  I  ...  I  should, 
perhaps,  not  have  made  up  my  mind  to  intrude 
on  you  to-day,  if  I  had  not  been  asked  to  come 
to  you.     In  fact,  I  have  a  message  for  you.' 

*  From  whom,  may  I  ask  ? ' 

119 


SMOKE 

*  From  a  person  you  know,  from  Irina 
Pavlovna  Ratmirov.  You  promised  three  days 
ago  to  go  and  see  her  and  you  have  not  been.' 

Litvinov  stared  at  Potugin  in  amazement 
'You  know  Madame  Ratmirov?' 

*  As  you  see.' 

*  And  you  know  her  well  ?  * 

*  I  am  to  a  certain  degree  a  friend  of  hers.' 
Litvinov  was  silent  for  a  little, 

'  '  Allow  me  to  ask  you,'  he  began  at  last,  *  do 
you  know  why  Irina  Pavlovna  wants  to  see 
me?' 

Potugin  went  up  to  the  window. 

*To  a  certain  degree  I  do.  She  was,  as  far 
as  I  can  judge,  very  pleased  at  meeting  you, — 
well, — and  she  wants  to  renew  your  former 
relations.' 

*  Renew,'  repeated  Litvinov.  *  Excuse  my 
indiscretion,  but  allow  me  to  question  you  a 
little  more.  Do  you  know  what  was  the 
nature  of  those  relations  ?  * 

*  Strictly  speaking  .  .  .  no,  I  don't  know.  But 
I  imagine,'  added  Potugin,  turning  suddenly 
to  Litvinov  and  looking  affectionately  at  him, 
*  I  imagine  that  they  were  of  some  value.  Irina 
Pavlovna  spoke  very  highly  of  you,  and  I  was 
obliged  to  promise  her  I  would  bring  you.  Will 
you  come  ? ' 

/When?'  ^ 

120 


SMOKE 

'  Now  ...  at  once.' 

Litvinov  merely  made  a  gesture  with  his 
hand, 

*  Irina  Pavlovna,'  pursued  Potugin,  'supposes 
that  the  .  .  .  how  can  I  express  it  .  .  .  the 
environment,  shall  we  say,  in  which  you 
found  her  the  other  day,  was  not  likely  to  be 
particularly  attractive  to  you  ;  but  she  told  me 
to  tell  you,  that  the  devil  is  not  so  black  as  he 
is  fancied.* 

*  Hm.  .  .  .  Does  that  saying  apply  strictly  to 
the  environment  ? ' 

*Yes  .  .  .  and  in  general.* 

*  Hm.  .  .  .  Well,  and  what  is  your  opinion, 
Sozont  Ivanitch,  of  the  devil  ? ' 

*  I  think,  Grigory  Mihalitch,  that  he  is  in  any 
case  not  what  he  is  fancied.' 

'  Is  he  better  ? ' 

'Whether  better  or  worse  it's  hard  to  say, 
but  certainly  he  is  not  the  same  as  he  is  fancied. 
Well,  shall  we  go  ?  ' 

'  Sit  here  a  little  first.  I  must  own  that  it 
still  seems  rather  strange  to  me.' 

'  What  seems  strange,  may  I  make  bold  to 
inquire  ? ' 

'  In  what  way  can  you  have  become  a  friend 
of  Irina  Pavlovna?' 

Potugin  scanned  himself. 

*With  my  appearance,  and   my  position  in 

121 


SMOKE 

society,  It  certainly  does  seem  rather  Incredible  ; 
but  you  know — Shakespeare  has  said  already, 
"There  are  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth, 
Horatio,  etc."  Life  too  is  not  to  be  trifled  with. 
Here  is  a  simile  for  you  ;  a  tree  stands  before 
you  when  there  is  no  wind  ;  in  what  way  can  a 
leaf  on  a  lower  branch  touch  a  leaf  on  an  upper 
branch  ?  It 's  impossible.  But  when  the  storm 
rises  it  is  all  changed  .  .  .  and  the  two  leaves 
touch.' 

'  Aha  !     So  there  were  storms  ? ' 

*  I  should  think  so !  Can  one  live  without 
them  ?  But  enough  of  philosophy.  It 's  time 
to  go.' 

Litvinov  was  still  hesitating. 

'  O  good  Lord  ! '  cried  Potugin  with  a  comic 
face,  '  what  are  young  men  coming  to  nowa- 
days !  A  most  charming  lady  invites  them  to 
see  her,  sends  messengers  after  them  on  pur- 
pose, and  they  raise  difficulties.  You  ought 
to  be  ashamed,  my  dear  sir,  you  ought  to 
be  ashamed.  Here's  your  hat.  Take  it 
and  "  Vorwarts,"  as  our  ardent  friends  the 
Germans  say.' 

Litvinov  still  stood  irresolute  for  a  moment, 
but  he  ended  by  taking  his  hat  and  going  out 
of  the  room  with  Potugin. 


122 


XII 


They  went  to  one  of  the  best  hotels  in  Baden 
and  asked  for  Madame  Ratmirov.  The  porter 
first  inquired  their  names,  and  then  answered 
at  once  that  *  die  Frau  Fiirstin  ist  zu  Hausel 
and  went  himself  to  conduct  them  up  the 
staircase  and  knock  at  the  door  of  the  apart- 
ment and  announce  them.  *  Die  Frau  Fiirstin  * 
received  them  promptly :  she  was  alone,  her 
husband  had  gone  off  to  Carlsruhe  for  an  inter- 
view with  a  great  official,  an  influential  per- 
sonage who  was  passing  through  that  town. 

Irina  was  sitting  at  a  small  table,  embroider- 
ing on  canvas  when  Potugin  and  Litvinov 
crossed  the  threshold.  She  quickly  flung  her 
embroidery  aside,  pushed  away  the  little  table 
and  got  up ;  an  expression  of  genuine  pleasure 
overspread  her  face.  She  wore  a  morning  dress, 
high  at  the  neck  ;  the  superb  lines  of  her 
shoulders  and  arms  could  be  seen  through  the 
thin  stuff;  her  carelessly-coiled  hair  had  come 
loose  and  fell  low  on  her  slender  neck.     Irina 

123 


SMOKE 

flung  a  swift  glance  at  Potugin,  murmured 
*  mercil  and  holding  out  her  hand  to  Litvinov 
reproached  him  amicably  for  forgetfulness. 

*  And  you  such  an  old  friend  ! '  she  added. 
Litvinov  was  beginning  to  apologise.     '  Cest 

bien,  cest  bienl  she  assented  hurriedly  and, 
taking  his  hat  from  him,  with  friendly  insist- 
ence made  him  sit  down.  Potugin,  too,  was 
sitting  down,  but  got  up  again  directly,  and 
saying  that  he  had  an  engagement  he  could 
not  put  off,  and  that  he  would  come  in  again 
after  dinner,  he  proceeded  to  take  leave.  Irina 
again  flung  him  a  rapid  glance,  and  gave  him 
a  friendly  nod,  but  she  did  not  try  to  keep  him, 
and  directly  he  had  vanished  behind  the  portiere, 
she  turned  with  eager  impatience  to  Litvinov. 

'  Grigory  Mihalitch,'  she  began,  speaking 
Russian  in  her  soft  musical  voice,  'here  we 
are  alone  at  last,  and  I  can  tell  you  how  glad 
I  am  at  our  meeting,  because  it  ...  it  gives 
me  a  chance  .  .  .'  (Irina  looked  him  straight 
in  the  face)  'of  asking  your  forgiveness.' 

Litvinov  gave  an  involuntary  start.  He  had 
not  expected  so  swift  an  attack.  He  had  not 
expected  she  would  herself  turn  the  conver- 
sation upon  old  times. 

*  Forgiveness  ...  for  what  ?  *  .  .  .  he 
muttered. 

Irina  flushed. 

124 


SMOKE 

*  For  what  ?  ,  .  .  you  know  for  what,'  she 
said,  and  she  turned  sh'ghtly  away.  *  I  wronged 
you,  Grigory  Mihalitch  .  .  .  though,  of  course, 
it  was  my  fate '  (Litvinov  was  reminded  of  her 
letter)  '  and  I  do  not  regret  it  ...  it  would  be 
in  any  case  too  late  ;  but,  meeting  you  so  un- 
expectedly, I  said  to  myself  that  we  absolutely 
must  become  friends,  absolutely  .  .  .  and  I 
should  feel  it  deeply,  if  it  did  not  come  about 
.  .  .  and  it  seems  to  me  for  that  we  must  have 
an  explanation,  without  putting  it  off,  and  once 
for  all,  so  that  afterwards  there  should  be  no 
.  .  .  £-ene,  no  awkwardness,  once  for  all,  Grigory 
Mihalitch  ;  and  that  you  must  tell  me  you  for- 
give me,  or  else  I  shall  imagine  you  feel  .  .  . 
c/e  la  rancune.  Voild  !  It  is  perhaps  a  great 
piece  of  fatuity  on  my  part,  for  you  have 
probably  forgotten  everything  long,  long 
ago,  but  no  matter,  tell  me,  you  have  for- 
given me.* 

Irina  uttered  this  whole  speech  without 
taking  breath,  and  Litvinov  could  see  that 
there  were  tears  shining  in  her  eyes  .  .  .  yes, 
actually  tears, 

'  Really,  Irina  Pavlovna,'  he  began  hurriedly, 
*  how  can  you  beg  my  pardon,  ask  forgiveness  ? 
.  .  .  That  is  all  past  and  buried,  and  I  can  only 
feel  astounded  that,  in  the  midst  of  all  the 
splendour  which  surrounds  you,  you  have  still 

125 


SMOKE 

preserved  a  recollection  of  the  obscure  com- 
panions of  your  youth.  .  .  .' 

*  Does  it  astound  you  ?  *  said  Irina  softly. 

'  It  touches  me/  Litvinov  went  on,  '  because 
I  could  never  have  imagined ' 

*  You  have  not  told  me  you  have  forgiven  me, 
though,'  interposed  Irina. 

'  I  sincerely  rejoice  at  your  happiness,  Irina 
Pavlovna.  With  my  whole  heart  I  wish  you 
all  that  is  best  on  earth.  .  .  .' 

*  And  you  will  not  remember  evil  against 
me?' 

I  will  remember  nothing  but  the  happy 
moments  for  which  I  was  once  indebted  to  you.' 
Irina  held  out  both  hands  to  him  ;  Litvinov 
clasped  them  warmly,  and  did  not  at  once  let 
them  go.  .  .  .  Something  that  long  had  not 
been,  secretly  stirred  in  his  heart  at  that  soft 
contact.  Irina  was  again  looking  straight  into 
his  face  ;  but  this  time  she  was  smiling.  .  .  . 
And  he  for  the  first  time  gazed  directly  and 
intently  at  her.  .  .  .  Again  he  recognised  the 
features  once  so  precious,  and  those  deep  eyes, 
with  their  marvellous  lashes,  and  the  little  mole 
on  her  cheek,  and  the  peculiar  growth  of  her 
hair  on  her  forehead,  and  her  habit  of  some- 
how sweetly  and  humorously  curving  her  lips 
and  faintly  twitching  her  eyebrows,  all,  all  he 
recognised.  .  .  .  But    how    beautiful    she   had 

126 


SMOKE 

grown  !  What  fascination,  what  power  in  her 
fresh,  woman's  body  !  And  no  rouge,  no  touch- 
ing up,  no  powder,  nothing  false  on  that  fresh 
pure  face.  .  .  Yes,  this  was  a  beautiful  woman. 
A  mood  of  musing  came  upon  Litvinov.  .  .  . 
He  was  still  looking  at  her,  but  his  thoughts 
were  far  away.  .  .  .  Irina  perceived  it. 

'  Well,  that  is  excellent,'  she  said  aloud ; 
*  now  my  conscience  is  at  rest  then,  and  I  can 
satisfy  my  curiosity.' 

'  Curiosity,'  repeated  Litvinov,  as  though 
puzzled. 

*  Yes,  yes.  ...  I  want  above  all  things  to 
know  what  you  have  been  doing  all  this  time, 
what  plans  you  have  ;  I  want  to  know  all,  how, 
what,  when  .  .  .  all,  all.  And  you  will  have  to 
tell  me  the  truth,  for  I  must  warn  you,  I  have 
not  lost  sight  of  you  ...  so  far  as  I  could.' 

*  You  did  not  lose  sight  of  me,  you  .  .  .  there 
...  in  Petersburg  ? ' 

*  In  the  midst  of  the  splendour  which  sur- 
rounded me,  as  you  expressed  it  just  now.  Posi- 
tively, yes,  I  did  not.  As  for  that  splendour 
we  will  talk  about  that  again  ;  but  now  you 
must  tell  me,  you  must  tell  me  so  much,  at 
such  length,  no  one  will  disturb  us.  Ah,  how 
delightful  it  will  be,'  added  Irina,  gaily  sitting 
down  and  arranging  herself  at  her  ease  in  an 
armchair.     '  Come,  begin.' 

127 


SMOKE 

*  Before  telling  my  story,  I  have  to  thank 
you,'  began  Litvinov. 

'  What  for  ? ' 

*  For  the  bouquet  of  flowers,  which  made  its 
appearance  in  my  room.' 

*  What  bouquet  ?  I  know  nothing  about  it/ 

*  What  ?  ' 

'  I  tell  you  I  know  nothing  about  it.  .  .  .  But 
I  am  waiting.  .  .  I  am  waiting  for  your  story. 
.  .  .  Ah,  what  a  good  fellow  that  Potugin  is  to 
have  brought  you  ! ' 

Litvinov  pricked  up  his  ears. 

*  Have  you  known  this  Mr.  Potugin  long  ? ' 
he  queried. 

*Yes,  a  long  while  .  .  .  but  tell  me  your 
story.' 

*  And  do  you  know  him  well  ?  * 

*  Oh,  yes  ! '  Irina  sighed.  '  There  are  special 
reasons.  .  .  .  You  have  heard,  of  course,  of 
Eliza  Byelsky.  .  .  .  Who  died,  you  know,  the 
year  before  last,  such  a  dreadful  death?  .  . 
Ah,  to  be  sure,  I  'd  forgotten  you  don't  know 
all  our  scandals.  ...  It  is  well,  it  is  well  in- 
deed, that  you  don't  know  them.  O  quelle 
chance  !  at  last,  at  last,  a  man,  a  live  man,  who 
knows  nothing  of  us  !  And  to  be  able  to  talk 
Russian  with  him,  bad  Russian  of  course,  but 
still  Russian,  not  that  everlasting  mawkish, 
sickening  French  patter  of  Petersburg.' 

128 


I 


SMOKE 

*  And  Potugin,  you  say,  was  connected  with —  * 

*  It 's  very  painful  for  me  even  to  refer 
to  it,'  Irina  broke  in.  *  Eliza  was  my  greatest 
friend  at  school,  and  afterwards  in  Petersburg 
we  saw  each  other  continually.  She  con- 
fided all  her  secrets  to  me,  she  was  very 
unhappy,  she  suffered  much.  Potugin  behaved 
splendidly  in  the  affair,  with  true  chivalry. 
He  sacrificed  himself.  It  was  only  then  I 
learnt  to  appreciate  him  !  But  we  have  drifted 
away  again.  I  am  waiting  for  your  story, 
Grigory  Mihalitch.' 

'  But    my    story    cannot    interest    you    the 
least,  Irina  Pavlovna.' 
'  That 's  not  your  affair.' 

*  Think,  Irina  Pavlovna,  we  have  not  seen 
each  other  for  ten  years,  ten  whole  years. 
How  much  water  has  flowed  by  since  then.' 

*  Not  water  only !  not  water  only ! '  she  re- 
peated with  a  peculiar  bitter  expression;  *  that 's 
just  why  I  want  to  hear  what  you  are  going  to 
tell  me.' 

'And  beside  I  really  don't  know  where  to 
begin.' 

'  At  the  beginning.  From  the  very  time  when 
you  .  .  .  when  I  went  away  to  Petersburg. 
You  left  Moscow  then.  .  .  .  Do  you  know  1 
have  never  been  back  to  Moscow  since ! ' 

*  Really  ? ' 

129  I 


SMOKE 

*  It  was  impossible  at  first ;  and  afterwards 
when  I  was  married .' 

'  Have  you  been  married  long  ?  * 

*  Four  years.' 

'  Have  you  no  children  ?  ' 

*  No/  she  answered  drily. 
Litvinov  was  silent  for  a  little. 

'And  did  you  go  on  living  at  that,  what 
was  his  name,  Count  Reisenbach's,  till  your 
marriage  ? ' 

Irina  looked  steadily  at  him,  as  though  she 
were  trying  to  make  up  her  mind  why  he  asked 
that  question. 

*  No,'  .  .  .  was  her  answer  at  last. 

*  I  suppose,  your  parents.  .  .  .  By  the  way, 
I  haven't  asked  after  them.     Are  they * 

*  They  are  both  well.' 

'  And  living  at  Moscow  as  before  ?  * 
'  At  Moscow  as  before.' 

*  And  your  brothers  and  sisters  ? ' 

*  They  are  all  right ;  I  have  provided  for  all 
of  them.' 

'  Ah ! '  Litvinov  glanced  up  from  under  his 
brows  at  Irina.  *  In  reality,  Irina  Pavlovna, 
it 's  not  I  who  ought  to  tell  my  story,  but  you, 

if  only '    He  suddenly  felt  embarrassed  and 

stopped. 

Irina  raised  her  hands  to  her  face  and  turned 
her  wedding-ring  round  upon  her  finger. 

130 


SMOKE 

'  Well  ?  I  will  not  refuse/  she  assented  at 
last.  '  Some  day  .  .  .  perhaps.  .  .  But  first 
you  .  .  .  because,  do  you  see,  though  I  tried  to 
follow  you  up,  I  know  scarcely  anything  of  you  ; 
while  of  me  .  .  .  well,  of  me  you  have  heard 
enough  certainly.  Haven't  you?  I  suppose 
you  have  heard  of  me,  tell  me  ?  ' 

'  You,  Irina  Pavlovna,  occupied  too  con- 
spicuous a  place  in  the  world,  not  to  be  the 
subject  of  talk  .  .  .  especially  in  the  provinces, 
where  I  have  been  and  where  every  rumour  is 
believed.' 

'  And  do  you  believe  the  rumours  ?  And  of 
what  kind  were  the  rumours  ? ' 

*  To  tell  the  truth,  Irina  Pavlovna,  such 
rumours  very  seldom  reached  me.  I  have  led 
a  very  solitary  life.' 

*  How  so  ?  why,  you  were  in  the  Crimea,  in 
the  militia  ? ' 

*  You  know  that  too  ?  ' 

*  As  you  see.  I  tell  you,  you  have  been 
watched.' 

Again  Litvinov  felt  puzzled. 
'  Why  am  I  to  tell  you  what  you  know  with- 
out me  ? '  said  Litvinov  in  an  undertone. 

*  Why  ...  to  do  what  I  ask  you.  You  see 
I  ask  you,  Grigory  Mihalitch.' 

Litvinov  bowed  his  head  and  began  .  .  , 
began  in  rather  a  confused  fashion  to  recount 

131 


SMOKE 

in  rough  outline  to  Irina  his  uninteresting 
adventures.  He  often  stopped  and  looked 
inquiringly  at  Irina,  as  though  to  ask  whether 
he  had  told  enough.  But  she  insistently  de- 
manded the  continuation  of  his  narrative  and 
pushing  her  hair  back  behind  her  ears,  her 
elbows  on  the  arm  of  her  chair,  she  seemed  to 
be  catching  every  word  with  strained  attention. 
Looking  at  her  from  one  side  and  following  the 
expression  on  her  face,  any  one  might  perhaps 
have  imagined  she  did  not  hear  what  Litvinov 
was  saying  at  all,  but  was  only  deep  in  medita- 
tion. .  But  it  was  not  of  Litvinov  she  was 
meditating,  though  he  grew  confused  and  red 
under  her  persistent  gaze.  A  whole  life  was 
rising  up  before  her,  a  very  different  one,  not 
his  life,  but  her  own. 

Litvinov  did  not  finish  his  story,  but  stopped 
short  under  the  influence  of  an  unpleasant  sense 
of  growing  inner  discomfort.  This  time  Irina 
said  nothing  to  him,  and  did  not  urge  him  to 
go  on,  but  pressing  her  open  hand  to  her  eyes, 
as  though  she  were  tired,  she  leaned  slowly 
back  in  her  chair,  and  remained  motionless. 
Litvinov  waited  for  a  little  ;  then,  reflecting  that 
his  visit  had  already  lasted  more  than  two  hours, 
he  was  stretching  out  his  hand  for  his  hat,  when 
suddenly  in  an  adjoining  room  there  was  the 
sound  of  the  rapid  creak  of  thin  kid  boots,  and 

133 


SMOKE 

preceded  by  the  same  exquisite  aristocratic 
perfume,  there  entered  Valerian  Vladimirovitch 
Ratmirov. 

Litvinov  rose  and  interchanged  bows  with 
the  good-looking  general,  while  Irina,  with  no 
sign  of  haste,  took  her  hand  from  her  face,  and 
looking  coldly  at  her  husband,  remarked  in 
French,  '  Ah  1  so  you  've  come  back  1  But 
what  time  is  it  ? ' 

'  Nearly  four,  ma  chere  ainiey  and  you  not 
dressed  yet — the  princess  will  be  expecting  us,' 
answered  the  general ;  and  with  an  elegant  bend 
of  his  tightly-laced  figure  in  Litvinov's  direction, 
he  added  with  the  almost  effeminate  playful- 
ness of  intonation  characteristic  of  him,  *  It 's 
clear  an  agreeable  visitor  has  made  you  forget- 
ful of  time.' 

The  reader  will  permit  us  at  this  point  to 
give  him  some  information  about  General  Rat- 
mirov. His  father  was  the  natural  .  .  .  what 
do  you  suppose?  You  are  not  wrong — but 
we  didn't  mean  to  say  that  .  .  .  the  natural 
son  of  an  illustrious  personage  of  the  reign  of 
Alexander  I.  and  of  a  pretty  little  French  actress. 
The  illustrious  personage  brought  his  son  for- 
ward in  the  world,  but  left  him  no  fortune,  and  the 
son  himself  (the  father  of  our  hero)  had  not  time 
to  grow  rich  ;  he  died  before  he  had  risen  above 
the  rank  of  a  colonel  in  the  police.     A  year  be- 

133 


SMOKE 

fore  his  death  he  had  married  a  handsome  young 
widow  who  had  happened  to  put  herself  under 
his  protection.  His  son  by  the  widow,  Valerian 
Alexandrovitch,  having  got  into  the  Corps  of 
Pages  by  favour,  attracted  the  notice  of  the 
authorities,  not  so  much  by  his  success  in  the 
sciences,  as  by  his  fine  bearing,  his  fine  manners, 
and  his  good  behaviour  (though  he  had  been 
exposed  to  all  that  pupils  in  the  government 
military  schools  were  inevitably  exposed  to  in 
former  days)  and  went  into  the  Guards.  His 
career  was  a  brilliant  one,  thanks  to  the  discreet 
gaiety  of  his  disposition,  his  skill  in  dancing,  his 
excellent  seat  on  horseback  when  an  orderly 
at  reviews,  and  lastly,  by  a  kind  of  special  trick 
of  deferential  familiarity  with  his  superiors,  of 
tender,  attentive  almost  clinging  subservience, 
with  a  flavour  of  vague  liberalism,  light  as  air. 
.  .  .  This  liberalism  had  not,  however,  prevented 
him  from  flogging  fifty  peasants  in  a  White 
Russian  village,  where  he  had  been  sent  to  put 
down  a  riot.  His  personal  appearance  was  most 
prepossessing  and  singularly  youthful-looking ; 
smooth-faced  and  rosy-cheeked,  pliant  and 
persistent,  he  made  the  most  of  his  amazing  suc- 
cess with  women  ;  ladies  of  the  highest  rank  and 
mature  age  simply  went  out  of  their  senses  over 
him.  Cautious  from  habit,  silent  from  motives 
of  prudence,  General  Ratmirov  moved  constantly 

134 


SMOKE 

in  the  highest  society,  like  the  busy  bee  gather- 
ing honey  even  from  the  least  attractive  flowers 
— and  without  morals,  without  information  of 
any  kind,  but  with  the  reputation  of  being  good 
at  business  ;  with  an  insight  into  men,  and  a 
ready  comprehension  of  the  exigencies  of  the 
moment,  and  above  all,  a  never-swerving  desire 
for  his  own  advantage,  he  saw  at  last  all  paths 
lying  open  before  him.  .  .  . 

Litvinov  smiled  constrainedly,  while  Irina 
merely  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

*  Well,'  she  said  in  the  same  cold  tone,  *  did 
you  see  the  Count  ? ' 

*  To  be  sure  I  saw  him.  He  told  me  to  re- 
member him  to  you.' 

'  Ah !  is  he  as  imbecile  as  ever,  that  patron 
of  yours  ? ' 

General  Ratmirov  made  no  reply.  He  only 
smiled  to  himself,  as  though  lenient  to  the  over- 
hastiness  of  a  woman's  judgment.  With  just 
such  a  smile  kindly-disposed  grown-up  people 
respond  to  the  nonsensical  whims  of  children. 

'  Yes,'  Irina  went  on,  *  the  stupidity  of  your 
friend  the  Count  is  too  striking,  even  when  one 
has  seen  a  good  deal  of  the  world.' 

*  You  sent  me  to  him  yourself,'  muttered  the 
general,  and  turning  to  Litvinov  he  asked  him 
in  Russian,  '  Was  he  getting  any  benefit  from 
the  Baden  waters  ? ' 

135 


SMOKE 

'  I  am  in  perfect  health,  I  'm  thankful  to  say,' 
answered  Litvinov. 

*  That 's  the  greatest  of  blessings/  pursued  the 
general,  with  an  affable  grimace ;  *  and  indeed 
one  doesn't,  as  a  rule,  come  to  Baden  for  the 
waters ;  but  the  waters  here  are  very  effectual, 
je  veux  dire,  efficaces ;  and  any  one  who  suffers, 
as  I  do  for  instance,  from  a  nervous  cough * 

Irina  rose  quickly.  *  We  will  see  each  other 
again,  Grigory  Mihalitch,  and  I  hope  soon,' 
she  said  in  French,  contemptuously  cutting 
short  her  husband's  speech,  '  but  now  I  must 
go  and  dress.  That  old  princess  is  insufferable 
with  her  everlasting  parties  de  plaisir^  of  which 
nothing  comes  but  boredom.' 

'  You  're  hard  on  every  one  to-day,'  muttered 
her  husband,  and  he  slipped  away  into  the  next 
room. 

Litvinov  was  turning  towards  the  door.  .  .  . 
Irina  stopped  him. 

'  You  have  told  me  everything,'  she  said,  *  but 
the  chief  thing  you^concealed.' 

*  What's  that?' 

*  You  are  going  to  be  married,  I  'm  told  ?' 
Litvinov  blushed  up  to  his  ears.  .  .  .  As  a 

fact,  he  had  intentionally  not  referred  to  Tanya; 
but  he  felt  horribly  vexed,  first,  that  Irina 
knew  about  his  marriage,  and,  secondly,  that 
she  had,  as  it  were,  convicted  him  of  a  desire  to 

136 


SMOKE 

conceal  it  from  her.  He  was  completely  at  a 
loss  what  to  say,  while  Irina  did  not  take  her 
eyes  off  him. 

*  Yes,  I  am  going  to  be  married/  he  said  at 
last,  and  at  once  withdrew. 

Ratmirov  came  back  into  the  room. 

*  Well,  why  aren't  you  dressed  ? '  he  asked. 

*  You  can  go  alone ;  my  head  aches.' 

*  But  the  princess      .  .' 

Irina  scanned  her  husband  from  head  to  foot 
in  one  look,  turned  her  back  upon  him,  and 
went  away  to  her  boudoir. 


137 


XIII 

LiTViNOV  felt  much  annoyed  with  himself,  as 
though  he  had  lost  money  at  roulette,  or  failed 
to  keep  his  word.  An  inward  voice  told  him 
that  he — on  the  eve  of  marriage,  a  man  of  sober 
sense,  not  a  boy — ought  not  to  have  given  way 
to  the  promptings  of  curiosity,  nor  the  allure- 
ments of  recollection.  *  Much  need  there  was 
to  go ! '  he  reflected.  *  On  her  side  simply 
flirtation,  whim,  caprice.  .  .  .  She's  bored, 
she's  sick  of  everything,  she  clutched  at  me 
.  .  .  as  some  one  pampered  with  dainties 
will  suddenly  long  for  black  bread  .  .  .  well, 
that 's  natural  enough.  .  .  .  But  why  did  I  go  ? 
Can  I  feel  anything  but  contempt  for  her?* 
This  last  phrase  he  could  not  utter  even  in 
thought  without  an  effort.  .  .  .  *  Of  course, 
there 's  no  kind  of  danger,  and  never  could  be/ 
he  pursued  his  reflections.  *  I  know  whom  I 
have  to  deal  with.  But  still  one  ought  not  to 
play  with  fire.  ...  I  '11  never  set  my  foot  in  her 
place  again.'     Litvinov  dared  not,  or  could  not 

138 


SMOKE 

as  yet,  confess  to  himself  how  beautiful  Irina  had 
seemed  to  him,  how  powerfully  she  had  worked 
upon  his  feelings. 

Again  the  day  passed  dully  and  drearily. 
At  dinner,  Litvinov  chanced  to  sit  beside  a 
majestic  belhomme^  with  dyed  moustaches,  who 
said  nothing,  and  only  panted  and  rolled  his 
eyes  .  .  .  but,  being  suddenly  taken  with  a 
hiccup,  proved  himself  to  be  a  fellow-country- 
man, by  at  once  exclaiming,  with  feeling,  in 
Russian,  *  There,  I  said  I  ought  not  to  eat 
melons!'  In  the  evening,  too, nothing  happened 
to  compensate  for  a  lost  day  ;  Bindasov,  before 
Litvinov's  very  eyes,  won  a  sum  four  times 
what  he  had  borrowed  from  him,  but,  far  from 
repaying  his  debt,  he  positively  glared  in  his 
face  with  a  menacing  air,  as  though  he  were 
prepared  to  borrow  more  from  him  just  because 
he  had  been  a  witness  of  his  winnings.  The 
next  morning  he  was  again  invaded  by  a  host 
of  his  compatriots ;  Litvinov  got  rid  of  them 
with  difficulty,  and  setting  off  to  the  mountains, 
he  first  came  across  Irina — he  pretended  not  to 
recognise  her,  and  passed  quickly  by — and  then 
Potugin.  He  was  about  to  begin  a  conversation 
with  Potugin,  but  the  latter  did  not  respond  to 
him  readily.  He  was  leading  by  the  hand  a 
smartly  dressed  little  girl,  with  fluffy,  almost 
white  curls,  large  black  eyes,  and  a  pale,  sickly 

139 


SMOKE 

little  face,  with  that  peculiar  peremptory  and 
impatient  expression  characteristic  of  spoiled 
children.  Litvinov  spent  two  hours  in  the 
mountains,  and  then  went  back  homewards 
along  the  Lichtenthaler  AUee.  ...  A  lady, 
sitting  on  a  bench,  with  a  blue  veil  over  her 
face,  got  up  quickly,  and  came  up  to  him.  .  .  . 
He  recognised  Irina. 

'  Why  do  you  avoid  me,  Grigory  Mihalitch  ? ' 
she  said,  in  the  unsteady  voice  of  one  who  is 
boiling  over  within. 

Litvinov  was  taken  aback.  *  I  avoid  you, 
Irina  Pavlovna? ' 

*  Yes,  you  .  .  .  you * 

Irina  seemed  excited,  almost  angry. 

'  You  are  mistaken,  I  assure  you.' 

'  No,  I  am  not  mistaken.  Do  you  suppose 
this  morning — when  we  met,  I  mean — do  you 
suppose  I  didn't  see  that  you  knew  me  ?  Do 
you  mean  to  say  you  did  not  know  me  ?  Tell 
me.' 

'  I  really  .  .  .  Irina  Pavlovna ' 

'Grigory  Mihalitch,  you're  a  straightforward 
man,  you  have  always  told  the  truth ;  tell  me, 
tell  me,  you  knew  me,  didn't  you  ?  you  turned 
away  on  purpose  ? ' 

Litvinov  glanced  at  Irina.  Her  eyes  shone 
with  a  strange  light,  while  her  cheeks  and  lips 
were  of  a  deathly  pallor  under  the  thick  net  of 

140 


SMOKE 

her  veil.  In  the  expression  of  her  face,  in  the 
very  sound  of  her  abruptly  jerked-out  whisper, 
there  was  something  so  irresistibly  mournful, 
beseeching  ,  .  .  Litvinov  could  not  pretend 
any  longer. 

*Yes  ...  I  knew  you/  he  uttered  not 
without  effort. 

Irina  slowly  shuddered,  and  slowly  dropped 
her  hands. 

'Why  did  you  not  come  up  to  me?*  she 
whispered. 

'  Why  .  .  .  why ! '  Litvinov  moved  on  one 
side,  away  from  the  path,  Irina  followed  him  in 
silence.  '  Why  ? '  he  repeated  once  more,  and 
suddenly  his  face  was  aflame,  and  he  felt  his 
chest  and  throat  choking  with  a  passion  akin 
to  hatred.  *  You  .  .  .  you  ask  such  a  question, 
after  all  that  has  passed  between  us  ?  Not  now, 
of  course,  not  now  ;  but  there  .  .  .  there  .  ,  in 
Moscow.' 

*  But,  you  know,  we  decided  ;  you  know,  you 
promised '  Irina  was  beginning. 

*  I  have  promised  nothing !  Pardon  the 
harshness  of  my  expressions,  but  you  ask  for 
the  truth — so  think  for  yourself:  to  what  but  a 
caprice — incomprehensible,  I  confess,  to  me — 
to  what  but  a  desire  to  try  how  much  power 
you  still  have  over  me,  can  I  attribute  your 
.  ,  .   1   don't  know  what  to  call   it  ,  ,  .  your 

141 


SMOKE 

persistence  ?  Our  paths  have  lain  so  far  apart ! 
I  have  forgotten  it  all,  I  've  lived  through  all 
that  suffering  long  ago,  I  Ve  become  a  different 
man  ^mpletely ;  you  are  married — happy,  at 
least,  in  appearance — you  fill  an  envied  position 
in  the  world  ;  what 's  the  object,  what 's  the  use 
of  our  meeting  ?  What  am  I  to  you  ?  what  are 
you  to  me  ?  We  cannot  even  understand  each 
other  now ;  there  is  absolutely  nothing  in 
common  between  us  now,  neither  in  the  past 
nor  in  the  present !  Especially  .  .  .  especially 
in  the  past  I  * 

Litvinov  uttered  all  this  speech  hurriedly, 
jerkily,  without  turning  his  head.  Irina  did 
not  stir,  except  from  time  to  time  she  faintly 
stretched  her  hands  out  to  him.  It  seemed  as 
though  she  were  beseeching  him  to  stop  and 
listen  to  her,  while,  at  his  last  words,  she  slightly 
bit  her  lower  lip,  as  though  to  master  the  pain 
of  a  sharp,  rapid  wound. 

*Grigory  Mihalitch,'  she  began  at  last,  in  a 
calmer  voice  ;  and  she  moved  still  further  away 
from  the  path,  along  which  people  from  time  to 
time  passed. 

Litvinov  in  his  turn  followed  her. 

*Grigory  Mihalitch,  believe  me,  if  I  could 
imagine  I  had  one  hair's-breadth  of  power  over 
you  left,  I  would  be  the  first  to  avoid  you.  If 
I  have  not  done  so,  if  I  made  up  my  mind,  in 

142 


SMOKE 

Spite  of  my  ♦  ,  .  of  the  wrong  T  did  you  in  the 
past,  to  renew  my  acquaintance  with  you,  it  was 
because  .  .  .  because ' 

'  Because  what  ? '  asked  Litvinov,  almost 
rudely. 

'  Because/  Irina  declared  with  sudden  force — 
*  it 's  too  insufferable,  too  unbearably  stifling  for 
me  in  society,  in  the  envied  position  you  talk 
about ;  because  meeting  you,  a  live  man,  after 
all  these  dead  puppets — you  have  seen  samples 
of  them  three  days  ago,  there  au  Vieux  ChdteaUy 
— I  rejoice  over  you  as  an  oasis  in  the  desert, 
while  you  suspect  me  of  flirting,  and  despise 
me  and  repulse  me  on  the  ground  that  I 
wronged  you — as  indeed  I  did — but  far  more 
myself!' 

*  You  chose  your  lot  yourself,  Irina  Pavlovna, 
Litvinov  rejoined  sullenly,  as  before  not  turning 
his  head. 

*  I  chose  it  myself,  yes  .  .  .  and  I  don't  com- 
plain ,  I  have  no  right  to  complain,'  said  Irina 
hurriedly ;  she  seemed  to  derive  a  secret  con- 
solation from  Litvinov's  very  harshness.  *  I 
know  that  you  must  think  ill  of  me,  and  I  won't 
justify  myself;  I  only  want  to  explain  my 
feeling  to  you,  I  want  to  convince  you  I  am  in 
no  flirting  humour  now.  .  .  .  Me  flirting  with 
you !  Why,  there  is  no  sense  in  it.  .  .  .  When 
I  saw  you,  all  that  was  good,  that  was  young  in 

143 


SMOKE 

me,  revived  .  .  .  that  time  when  I  had  not 
yet  chosen  my  lot,  everything  that  h'es  behind 
in  that  streak  of  brightness  behind  those  ten 
years.  .  .  .' 

'Come,  really,  Irina  Pavlovna !  So  far  as  I 
am  aware,  the  brightness  in  your  life  began 
precisely  with  the  time  we  separated.  .  .  .* 

Irina  put  her  handkerchief  to  her  lips. 

*  That 's  very  cruel,  what  you  say,  Grigory 
Mihalitch  ;  but  I  can't  feel  angry  with  you. 
Oh,  no,  that  was  not  a  bright  time,  it  was  not  for 
happiness  I  left  Moscow ;  I  have  known  not 
one  moment,  not  one  instant  of  happiness  .  .  . 
believe  me,  whatever  you  have  been  told.  If  I 
were  happy,  could  I  talk  to  you  as  I  am  talking 
now.  ...  I  repeat  to  you,  you  don't  know  what 
these  people  are.  .  .  .  Why,  they  understand 
nothing,  feel  for  nothing ;  they  Ve  no  intelli- 
gence even,  ni  esprit  ni  intelligence^  nothing  but 
tact  and  cunning ;  why,  in  reality,  music  and 
poetry  and  art  are  all  equally  remote  from 
them.  .  .  .  You  will  say  that  I  was  rather 
indifferent  to  all  that  myself;  but  not  to  the 
same  degree,  Grigory  Mihalitch  .  .  .  not  to  the 
same  degree!  It's  not  a  woman  of  the  world 
before  you  now,  you  need  only  look  at  me — not 
a  society  queen.  .  .  .  That 's  what  they  call  us, 
I  believe  .  .  .  but  a  poor,  poor  creature,  really 
deserving  of  pity.     Don't  wonder  at  my  words. 

144 


SMOKE 

...  I  am  beyond  feeling  pride  now !  I  hold 
out  my  hand  to  you  as  a  beggar,  will  you 
understand,  just  as  a  beggar.  .  .  ,  I  ask  for 
charity,'  she  added  suddenly,  in  an  involun- 
tary, irrepressible  outburst,  '  I  ask  for  charity, 
and  you ' 

Her  voice  broke.  Litvinov  raised  his  head 
and  looked  at  Irina;  her  breathing  came  quickly, 
her  lips  were  quivering.  Suddenly  his  heart 
beat  fast,  and  the  feeling  of  hatred  vanished. 

*You  say  that  our  paths  have  lain  apart,' 
Irina  went  on.  '  I  know  you  are  about  to  marry 
from  inclination,  you  have  a  plan  laid  out  for 
your  whole  life  ;  yes,  that 's  all  so,  but  we  have 
not  become  strangers  to  one  another,  Grigory 
Mihalitch  ;  we  can  still  understand  each  other. 
Or  do  you  imagine  I  have  grown  altogether 
dull — altogether  debased  in  the  mire  ?  Ah,  no, 
don't  think  that,  please !  Let  me  open  my 
heart,  I  beseech  you — there — even  for  the  sake 
of  those  old  days,  if  you  are  not  willing  to  forget 
them.  Do  so,  that  our  meeting  may  not  have 
come  to  pass  in  vain  ;  that  would  be  too  bitter ; 
it  would  not  last  long  in  any  case.  ...  I  don't 
know  how  to  say  it  properly,  but  you  will 
understand  me,  because  I  ask  for  little,  so  little 
.  .  .  only  a  little  sympathy,  only  that  you 
should  not  repulse  me,  that  you  should  let  me 

open  my  heart ' 

145  K 


SMOKE 

Irina  ceased  speaking,  there  were  tears  in 
her  voice.  She  sighed,  and  timidly,  with  a  kind 
of  furtive,  searching  look,  gazed  at  Litvinov, 
held  out  her  hand  to  him.  .  . 

Litvinov  slowly  took  the  hand  and  faintly 
pressed  it. 

*  Let  us  be  friends,'  whispered  Irina. 

'  Friends,'  repeated  Litvinov  dreamily.' 

'  Yes,  friends  ...  or  if  that  is  too  much  to 
ask,  then  let  us  at  least  be  friendly.  .  .  .  Let  us 
be  simply  as  though  nothing  had  happened.' 

*As  though  nothing  had  happened,  .  .  .* 
repeated  Litvinov  again.  *  You  said  just  now, 
Irina  Pavlovna,  that  I  was  unwilling  to  forget  the 
old  days.  .  .  .  But  what  if  I  can't  forget  them  .<*' 

A  blissful  smile  flashed  over  Irina's  face, 
and  at  once  disappeared,  to  be  replaced  by  a 
harassed,  almost  scared  expression. 

*Be  like  me,  Grigory  Mihalitch,  remember  only 
what  was  good  in  them  ;  and  most  of  all,  give  me 
your  word.  .  •  ,  Your  word  of  honour.  .  .  .' 

'Well?' 

*Not  to  avoid  me  .  .  .  not  to  hurt  me  for 
nothing.     You  promise  ?  tell  me  ! ' 

*  Yes.' 

'  And  you  will  dismiss  all  evil  thoughts  of  me 
from  your  mind.' 

*Yes  .  .  .  but  as  for  understanding  you — I 

give  it  up.' 

146 


SMOKE 

'There's  no  need  of  that  .  .  .  wait  a  little, 
though,  you  will  understand.  But  you  will 
promise  ? ' 

'  I  have  said  yes  already.* 

*  Thanks.  You  see  I  am  used  to  believe  you. 
I  shall  expect  you  to-day,  to-morrow,  I  will 
not  go  out  of  the  house.  And  now  I  must 
leave  you.  The  Grand  Duchess  is  coming  along 
the  avenue.  .  .  .  She 's  caught  sight  of  me,  and 
I  can't  avoid  going  up  to  speak  to  her.  .  .  . 
Good-bye  till  we  meet.  .  .  .  Give  me  your 
hand,  vite,  vite.     Till  we  meet.' 

And  warmly  pressing  Litvinov's  hand,  Irina 
walked  towards  a  middle-aged  person  of  dig- 
nified appearance,  who  was  coming  slowly  along 
the  gravel  path,  escorted  by  two  other  ladies, 
and  a  strikingly  handsome  groom  in  livery. 

*  Eh  bonjour,  chere  Madame  I  said  the  per- 
sonage, while  Irina  curtseyed  respectfully  to  her. 
*  Comment  allez-vous  aujoiird'hui?  Venez  un 
pen  avec  moi* 

'  Votre  Altesse  a  trop  de  bontel  Irina's  insinuat- 
ing voice  was  heard  in  reply. 


147 


XIV 

LiTVINOV  let  the  Grand  Duchess  and  all  her 
suite  get  out  of  sight,  and  then  he  too  went 
along  the  avenue.  He  could  not  make  up  his 
mind  clearly  what  he  was  feeling  ;  he  was  con- 
scious both  of  shame  and  dread,  while  his  vanity 
was  flattered.  .  .  .  The  unexpected  explanation 
with  Irina  had  taken  him  utterly  by  surprise  ; 
her  rapid  burning  words  had  passed  over  him 
like  a  thunder-storm.  *  Queer  creatures  these 
society  women,'  he  thought ;  '  there 's  no  con- 
sistency in  them  .  .  .  and  how  perverted  they 
are  by  the  surroundings  in  which  they  go  on 
living,  while  they  're  conscious  of  its  hideous- 
ness  themselves  ! '  .  .  .  In  reality  he  was  not 
thinking  this  at  all,  but  only  mechanically  re- 
peating these  hackneyed  phrases,  as  though  he 
were  trying  to  ward  off  other  more  painful 
thoughts.  He  felt  that  he  must  not  think 
seriously  just  now,  that  he  would  probably  have 
to  blame  himself,  and  he  moved  with  lagging 
steps,  almost  forcing  himself  to  pay  attention  to 

148 


SMOKE 

everything  that  happened  to  meet  him.  .  .  . 
He  suddenly  found  himself  before  a  seat,  caught 
sight  of  some  one's  legs  in  front  of  it,  and  looked 
upwards  from  them.  .  .  .  The  legs  belonged  to 
a  man,  sitting  on  the  seat,  and  reading  a  news- 
paper ;  this  man  turned  out  to  be  Fotugin. 
Litv'inov  uttered  a  faint  exclamation.  Potugin 
laid  the  paper  down  on  his  knees,  and  looked 
attentively,  without  a  smile,  at  Litvinov ;  and 
Litvinov  also  attentively,  and  also  without  a 
smile,  looked  at  Potugin. 

'  May  I  sit  by  you  ? '  he  asked  at  last. 

'  By  all  means,  I  shall  be  delighted.  Only  I 
warn  you,  if  you  want  to  have  a  talk  with  me, 
you  mustn't  be  offended  with  me — I'm  in  a 
most  misanthropic  humour  just  now,  and  1  see 
everything  in  an  exaggeratedly  repulsive  light' 

'  That 's  no  matter,  Sozont  Ivanitch,'  re- 
sponded Litvinov,  sinking  down  on  the  seat, 
*  indeed  it 's  particularly  appropriate.  .  .  .  But 
why  has  such  a  mood  come  over  you  ? ' 

'  I  ought  not  by  rights  to  be  ill-humoured,' 
began  Potugin.  '  I  've  just  read  in  the  paper 
a  project  for  judicial  reforms  in  Russia,  and 
I  see  with  genuine  pleasure  that  we  've  got 
some  sense  at  last,  and  they're  not  as  usual 
on  the  pretext  of  independence,  nationalism, 
or  originality,  proposing  to  tack  a  little 
home-made  tag   of  our  own   on    to   the  clear 

149 


SMOKE 

straightforward  logic  of  Europe  ;  but  are  taking 
what's  good  from  abroad  intact.  A  single 
adaptation  in  its  application  to  the  peasants' 
sphere  is  enough.  .  .  .  There  's  no  doing  away 
with  communal  ownership !  .  .  .  Certainly, 
certainly,  I  ought  not  to  be  ill-humoured  ;  but 
to  my  misfortune  I  chanced  upon  a  Russian 
"rough  diamond,"  and  had  a  talk  with  him, 
and  these  rough  diamonds,  these  self-educated 
geniuses,  would  make  me  turn  in  my  grave ! ' 

*  What  do  you  mean  by  a  rough  diamond  ? ' 
asked  Litvinov. 

'  Why,  there  's  a  gentleman  disporting  him- 
self here,  who  imagines  he  's  a  musical  genius. 
"  I  have  done  nothing,  of  course,"  he  '11  tell  you. 
"  I  'm  a  cipher,  because  I  've  had  no  training, 
but  I  've  incomparably  more  melody  and  more 
ideas  in  me  than  in  Meyerbeer."  In  the  first 
place,  I  say:  why  have  you  had  no  training? 
and  secondly,  that,  not  to  talk  of  Meyerbeer, 
the  humblest  German  flute-player,  modestly 
blowing  his  part  in  the  humblest  German 
orchestra,  has  twenty  times  as  many  ideas  as 
all  our  untaught  geniuses  ;  only  the  flute-player 
keeps  his  ideas  to  himself,  and  doesn't  trot 
them  out  with  a  flourish  in  the  land  of  Mozarts 
and  Haydns  ;  while  our  friend  the  rough 
diamond  has  only  to  strum  some  little  waltz  or 
song,  and  at  once  you  see  him  with  his  hands 

150 


SMOKE 

in  his  trouser  pocket  and  a  sneer  of  contempt 
on  his  lips  :  I  'm  a  genius,  he  says.  And  in 
painting  it 's  just  the  same,  and  in  everything 
else.  Oh,  these  natural  geniuses,  how  I  hate 
them  !  As  if  every  one  didn't  know  that  it 's 
only  where  there  's  no  real  science  fully  assimi- 
lated, and  no  real  art,  that  there  's  this  flaunting 
affectation  of  them.  Surely  it 's  time  to  have 
done  with  this  flaunting,  this  vulgar  twaddle, 
together  with  all  hackneyed  phrases  such  as 
"  no  one  ever  dies  of  hunger  in  Russia,"  "  nowhere 
is  there  such  fast  travelling  as  in  Russia,"  "  we 
Russians  could  bury  all  our  enemies  under  our 
hats."  I  'm  for  ever  hearing  of  the  richness  of 
the  Russian  nature,  their  unerring  instinct,  and 
of  Kulibin.  .  .  .  But  what  is  this  richness,  after 
all,  gentlemen  ?  Half-awakened  mutterings  or 
else  half-animal  sagacity.  Instinct,  indeed ! 
A  fine  boast.  Take  an  ant  in  a  forest  and  set 
it  down  a  mile  from  its  ant-hill,  it  will  find  its 
way  home ;  man  can  do  nothing  like  it ;  but 
what  of  it  ?  do  you  suppose  he 's  inferior  to 
the  ant  ?  Instinct,  be  it  ever  so  unerring,  is 
unworthy  of  man  ;  sense,  simple,  straightfor- 
ward, common  sense — that 's  our  heritage,  our 
pride ;  sense  won't  perform  any  such  tricks, 
but  it 's  that  that  everything  rests  upon.  As 
for  Kulibin,  who  without  any  knowledge  of 
mechanics  succeeded  in  making  some  very  bad 

151 


SMOKE 

watches,  why,  I  'd  have  those  watches  set  up  in 
the  pillory,  and  say  :  see,  good  people,  this  is  the 
way  not  to  do  it.  Kulibin  's  not  to  blame  for  it, 
but  his  work 's  rubbish.  To  admire  Telushkin's 
boldness  and  cleverness  because  he  climbed  on 
to  the  Admiralty  spire  is  well  enough ;  why 
not  admire  him  ?  But  there 's  no  need  to  shout 
that  he 's  made  the  German  architects  look 
foolish,  that  they  're  no  good,  except  at  making 
money.  .  .  .  He  's  not  made  them  look  foolish 
in  the  least ;  they  had  to  put  a  scaffolding 
round  the  spire  afterwards,  and  repair  it  in  the 
usual  way.  For  mercy's  sake,  never  encourage 
the  idea  in  Russia  that  anything  can  be  done 
without  training.  No  ;  you  may  have  the  brain 
of  a  Solomon,  but  you  must  study,  study  from 
the  ABC.  Or  else  hold  your  tongue,  and  sit 
still,  and  be  humble  !  Phoo  !  it  makes  one  hot 
all  over !  * 

Potugin  took  off  his  hat  and  began  fanning 
himself  with  his  handkerchief. 

*  Russian  art,'  he  began  again.  *  Russian  art, 
indeed  !  .  .  .  Russian  impudence  and  conceit,  I 
know,  and  Russian  feebleness  too,  but  Russian 
art,  begging  your  pardon,  I  've  never  come 
across.  For  twenty  years  on  end  they  've 
been  doing  homage  to  that  bloated  nonentity 
Bryullov,  and  fancying  that  we  have  founded 
a  school  of  our  own,  and  even  that  it  will  be 

153 


SMOKE 

better   than   all   others.  .  .  .   Russian   art,   ha, 
ha,  ha  !  ho,  ho  ! ' 

•  Excuse  me,  though,  Sozont  Ivanitch,'  re- 
marked Litvinov,  '  would  you  refuse  to  recog- 
nise Glinka  too,  then  ? ' 

Potugin  scratched  his  head. 

*  The  exception,  you  know,  only  proves  the 
rule,  but  even  in  that  instance  we  could  not 
dispense  with  bragging.  If  we  'd  said,  for 
example,  that  Glinka  was  really  a  remarkable 
musician,  who  was  only  prevented  by  circum- 
stances— outer  and  inner — from  becoming  the 
founder  of  the  Russian  opera,  none  would  have 
disputed  it ;  but  no,  that  was  too  much  to 
expect !  They  must  at  once  raise  him  to  the 
dignity  of  commander-in-chief,  of  grand-marshal, 
in  the  musical  world,  and  disparage  other 
nations  while  they  were  about  it ;  they  have 
nothing  to  compare  with  him,  they  declare,  then 
quote  you  some  marvellous  home-bred  genius 
whose  compositions  are  nothing  but  a  poor 
imitation  of  second-rate  foreign  composers,  yes, 
second-rate  ones,  for  they're  the  easiest  to 
imitate.  Nothing  to  compare  with  him  ?  Oh, 
poor  benighted  barbarians,  for  whom  standards 
in  art  are  non-existent,  and  artists  are  some- 
thing of  the  same  species  as  the  strong  man 
Rappo :  there 's  a  foreign  prodigy,  the)^  sa\% 
can  lift  fifteen  stone  in  one  hand,  but  our  man 

153 


SMOKE 

can  lift  thirty !  Nothing  to  compare  with  us, 
indeed !  I  will  venture  to  tell  you  some 
thing  I  remember,  and  can't  get  out  of  my  head. 
Last  spring  I  visited  the  Crystal  Palace  near 
London ;  in  that  Palace,  as  you  're  aware, 
there  's  a  sort  of  exhibition  of  everything  that 
has  been  devised  by  the  ingenuity  of  man — an 
encyclopaedia  of  humanity  one  might  call  it. 
Well,  I  walked  to  and  fro  among  the  machines 
and  implements  and  statues  of  great  men  ;  and 
all  the  while  I  thought,  if  it  were  decreed  that 
some  nation  or  other  should  disappear  from  the 
face  of  the  earth,  and  with  it  everything  that 
nation  had  invented,  should  disappear  from  the 
Crystal  Palace,  our  dear  mother,  Holy  Russia, 
could  go  and  hide  herself  in  the  lower  regions, 
without  disarranging  a  single  nail  in  the  place : 
everything  might  remain  undisturbed  where  it 
is  ;  for  even  the  samovar^  the  woven  bast  shoes, 
the  yoke-bridle,  and  the  knout — these  are  our 
famous  products — were  not  invented  by  us. 
One  could  not  carry  out  the  same  experiment 
on  the  Sandwich  islanders  ;  those  islanders  have 
made  some  peculiar  canoes  and  javelins  of  their 
own  ;  their  absence  would  be. noticed  by  visitors. 
It 's  a  libel !  it 's  too  severe,  you  say  perhaps. 
,  .  .  But  I  say,  first,  I  don't  know  how  to  roar 
like  any  sucking  dove  ;  and  secondly,  it 's  plain 
that  it 's  not  only  the  devil  no  one  dares  to  look 

154 


SMOKE 

Straight  in  the  face,  for  no  one  dares  to  look 
straight  at  himself,  and  it 's  not  only  children 
who  like  being  soothed  to  sleep.  Our  older 
inventions  came  to  us  from  the  East,  our  later 
ones  we  Ve  borrowed,  and  half  spoiled,  from  the 
West,  while  we  still  persist  in  talking  about 
the  independence  of  Russian  art !  Some  bold 
spirits  have  even  discovered  an  original  Russian 
science  ;  twice  two  makes  four  with  us  as  else- 
where, but  the  result's  obtained  more  ingeni- 
ously, it  appears.' 

*  But  wait  a  minute,  Sozont  Ivanitch,'  cried 
Litvinov.  '  Do  wait  a  minute  !  You  know  we 
send  something  to  the  universal  exhibitions, 
and  doesn't  Europe  import  something  from  us.' 

*  Yes,  raw  material,  raw  products.  And  note, 
my  dear  sir :  this  raw  produce  of  ours  is  gener- 
ally only  good  by  virtue  of  other  exceedingly 
bad  conditions ;  our  bristles,  for  instance,  are 
large  and  strong,  because  our  pigs  are  poor ; 
our  hides  are  stout  and  thick  because  our  cows 
are  thin  ;  our  tallow 's  rich  because  it 's  boiled 
down  with  half  the  flesh.  .  .  .  But  why  am  I 
enlarging  on  that  to  you,  though  ;  you  are  a 
student  of  technology,  to  be  sure,  you  must 
know  all  that  better  than  I  do.  They  talk  to 
me  of  our  inventive  faculty !  The  inventive 
faculty  of  the  Russians !  Why  our  worthy 
farmers  complain  bitterly  and  suffer  loss  be- 

155 


SMOKE 

cause  there 's  no  satisfactory  machine  for  drying 
grain  in  existence,  to  save  them  from  the 
necessity  of  putting  their  sheaves  in  ovens,  as 
they  did  in  the  days  of  Rurik  ;  these  ovens 
are  fearfully  wasteful — ^just  as  our  bast  shoes 
and  our  Russian  mats  are, — and  they  are  con- 
stantly getting  on  fire.  The  farmers  complain, 
but  still  there's  no  sign  of  a  drying-machine. 
And  why  is  there  none  ?  Because  the  Germ.an 
farmer  doesn't  need  them  ;  he  can  thrash  his 
wheat  as  it  is,  so  he  doesn't  bother  to  invent 
one,  and  we  .  .  .  are  not  capable  of  doing  it ! 
Not  capable — and  that 's  all  about  it !  Try  as 
we  may  !  From  this  day  forward  I  declare 
whenever  I  come  across  one  of  those  rough 
diamonds,  these  self-taught  geniuses,  I  shall 
say :  "  Stop  a  minute,  my  worthy  friend ! 
Where 's  that  drying-machine  ?  let 's  have  it !  " 
But  that 's  beyond  them  !  Picking  up  some  old 
cast-off  shoe,  dropped  ages  ago  by  St.  Simon 
or  Fourier,  and  sticking  it  on  our  heads  and 
treating  it  as  a  sacred  relic — that 's  what  we  're 
capable  of;  or  scribbling  an  article  on  the 
historical  and  contemporary  significance  of  the 
proletariat  in  the  principal  towns  of  France — 
that  we  can  do  too  ;  but  I  tried  once,  asking  a 
writer  and  political  economist  of  that  sort — 
rather  like  your  friend,  Mr  Voroshilov — to 
mention  twenty  towns  in  France,  and  what  do 

156 


SMOKE 

you  think  came  of  that  ?  Why  the  economist 
in  despair  at  last  mentioned  Mont-Fermeuil  as 
one  of  the  French  towns,  remembering  it  pro- 
bably from  some  novel  of  Paul  de  Kock's.  And 
that  reminds  me  of  the  following  anecdote.  I 
was  one  day  strolling  through  a  wood  with  a 
dog  and  a  gun ' 

'Are  you  a  sportsman  then?'  asked  Litvinov. 

*  I  shoot  a  little.  I  was  making  my  way  to  a 
swamp  in  search  of  snipe  ;  I  'd  been  told  of  the 
swamp  by  other  sportsmen.  I  saw  sitting  in 
a  clearing  before  a  hut  a  timber  merchant's 
clerk,  as  fresh  and  smooth  as  a  peeled  nut,  he 
was  sitting  there,  smiling  away — what  at,  I 
can't  say.  So  I  asked  him  :  "  Whereabouts 
was  the  swamp,  and  were  there  many  snipe  in 
it  ? "  "  To  be  ^urre,  to  be  sure,"  he  sang  out 
promptly,  and  with  an  expression  of  face  as 
though  I  'd  given  him  a  rouble  ;  "  the  swamp 's 
first-rate,  I  'm  thankful  to  say  ;  and  as  for  all 
kinds  of  wild  fowl, — my  goodness,  they  're  to  be 
found  there  in  wonderful  plenty."  I  set  off, 
but  not  only  found  no  wild  fowl,  the  swamp 
itself  had  been  dry  for  a  long  time.  Now  tell 
me,  please,  why  is  the  Russian  a  liar?  Why 
does  the  political  economist  lie,  and  why  the  lie 
about  the  wild  fowl  too  ? ' 

Litvinov  made  no  answer,  but  only  sighed 
sympathetically. 

157 


SMOKE 

*But  turn  the  conversation  with  the  same 
political  economist/  pursued  Potugin,  *  on  the 
most  abstruse  problems  of  social  science,  keep- 
ing to  theory,  without  facts  .  .  .  ! — he  takes 
flight  like  a  bird,  a  perfect  eagle.  I  did  once 
succeed,  though,  in  catching  one  of  those  birds. 
I  used  a  pretty  snare,  though  an  obvious  one, 
as  you  shall  see  if  you  please.  I  was  talking 
with  one  of  our  latter-day  "  new  young  men  " 
about  various  questions,  as  they  call  them. 
Well,  he  got  very  hot,  as  they  always  do. 
Marriage  among  other  things  he  attacked  with 
really  childish  exasperation.  I  brought  forward 
one,  argument  after  another  ...  I  might  as 
well  havt  talked  to  a  stone  wall !  I  saw  I 
should  never  get  round  him  like  that.  And 
then  I  had  a  happy  thought !  "  Allow  me  to 
submit  to  you,"  I  began, — one  must  always  talk 
very  respectfully  to  these  "  new  young  men  " — 
"  I  am  really  surprised  at  you,  my  dear  sir  ;  you 
are  studying  natural  science,  and  your  atten- 
tion has  never  up  till  now  been  caught  by  the 
fact  that  all  carnivorous  and  predatory  animals 
— wild  beasts  and  birds — all  who  have  to  go 
out  in  search  of  prey,  and  to  exert  themselves 
to  obtain  animal  food  for  themselves  and  their 
young  .  .  .  and  I  suppose  you  would  include 
man  in  the  category  of  such  animals?"  "Of 
course,  I  should,"  said  the  "  new  young  man," 

158 


SMOKE 

"man  is  nothing  but  a  carnivorous  animal." 
"  And  predatory  ?  "  I  added.  "  And  predatory," 
he  declared.  "  Well  said,"  I  observed.  "  Well, 
then  I  am  surprised  you  've  never  noticed  that 
such  animals  live  in  monogamy."  The  "new 
young  man  "  started.  "  How  so  ?  "  "  Why,  it  is 
so.  Think  of  the  lion,  the  wolf,  the  fox,  the 
vulture,  the  kite  ;  and,  indeed,  would  you  con- 
descend to  suggest  how  they  could  do  other- 
wise. It's  hard  work  enough  for  the  two 
together  to  get  a  living  for  their  offspring." 
My  "new  young  man "  grew  thoughtful.  "  Well," 
says  he,  "  in  that  case  the  animal  is  not  a  rule 
for  man."  Thereupon  I  called  him  an  ide.'  list, 
and  wasn't  he  hurt  at  that !  He  almost  cried. 
I  had  to  comfort  him  by  promising  not  to  tell 
of  him  to  his  friends.  To  deserve  to  be  called 
an  idealist  is  no  laughing  matter !  The  main 
point  in  which  our  latter-day  young  people  are 
out  in  their  reckoning  is  this.  They  fancy  that 
the  time  for  the  old,  obscure,  underground  work 
is  over,  that  it  was  all  very  well  for  their  old- 
fashioned  fathers  to  burrow  like  moles,  but 
that's  too  humiliating  a  part  for  us,  we  will 
take  action  in  the  light  of  day,  we  will  take 
action  .  ,  .  Poor  darlings !  why  your  children 
even  won't  take  action  ;  and  don't  you  care  to 
go  back  to  burrowing,  burrowing  underground 
again  in  the  old  tracks  ?  ' 

159 


SMOKE 

A  brief  silence  followed. 

*  I  am  of  opinion,  my  dear  sir,'  began  Potugin 
again,  *  that  we  are  not  only  indebted  to  civilisa- 
tion for  science,  art,  and  law,  but  that  even  the 
very  feeling  for  beauty  and  poetry  is  developed 
and  strengthened  under  the  influence  of  the 
same  civilisation,  and  that  the  so-called  popular, 
simple,  unconscious  creation  is  twaddling  and 
rubbishy.  Even  in  Homer  there  are  traces  of 
a  refined  and  varied  civilisation  ;  love  itself  is 
enriched  by  it.  The  Slavophils  would  cheer- 
fully hang  me  for  such  a  heresy,  if  they  were 
not  such  chicken-hearted  creatures  ;  but  I  will 
stick  up  for  my  own  ideas  all  the  same ;  and 
however  much  they  press  Madame  Kohanovsky 
and  "  The  swarm  of  bees  at  rest "  upon  me, — I 
can't  stand  the  odour  of  that  trtp/e  extrait  de 
moiigik  Russe,  as  I  don't  belong  to  the  highest 
society,  which  finds  it  absolutely  necessary  to 
assure  itself  from  time  to  time  that  it  has  not 
turned  quite  French,  and  for  whose  exclusive 
benefit  this  literature  en  cuir  de  Russie  is  manu- 
factured. Try  reading  the  raciest,  most  "  pop- 
ular" passages  from  the  "  Bees"  to  a  common 
peasant — a  real  one  ;  he  '11  think  you  're  repeat- 
ing him  a  new  spell  against  fever  or  drunken- 
ness. I  repeat,  without  civilisation  there 's 
not  even  poetry.  If  you  want  to  get  a  clear 
idea    of  the   poetic   ideal    of    the    uncivilised 

1 60 


SMOKE 

Russian,  you  should  turn  up  our  ballads,  our 
legends.  To  say  nothing  of  the  fact  that  love 
is  always  presented  as  the  result  of  witchcraft, 
of  sorcery,  and  produced  by  some  philtre,  to 
say  nothing  of  our  so-called  epic  literature 
being  the  only  one  among  all  the  European 
and  Asiatic  literatures — the  only  one,  observe, 
which  does  not  present  any  typical  pair  of 
lovers  —  unless  you  reckon  Vanka-Tanka  as 
such ;  and  of  the  Holy  Russian  knight  always 
beginning  his  acquaintance  with  his  destined 
bride  by  beating  her  "  most  pitilessly "  on  her 
white  body,  because  "the  race  of  women  is 
puffed  up  "  !  all  that  I  pass  over ;  but  I  should 
like  to  call  your  attention  to  the  artistic  form 
of  the  young  hero,  XhQJetine  premier^  as  he  was 
depicted  by  the  imagination  of  the  primitive, 
uncivilised  Slav.  Just  fancy  him  a  minute ; 
the. j'eune premier  enters;  a  cloak  he  has  worked 
himself  of  sable,  back-stitched  along  every  seam, 
a  sash  of  seven-fold  silk  girt  close  about  his 
armpits,  his  fingers  hidden  away  under  his  hang- 
ing sleevelets,  the  collar  of  his  coat  raised  high 
above  his  head,  from  before,  his  rosy  face  no  man 
can  see,  nor,  from  behind,  his  little  white  neck ; 
his  cap  is  on  one  ear,  while  on  his  feet  are  boots 
of  morocco,  with  points  as  sharp  as  a  cobbler's 
awl,  and  the  heels  peaked  like  nails.  Round 
the  points  an  egg  can  be  rolled,  and  a  sparrow 

I6l  L 


SMOKE 

can  fly  under  the  heels.  And  the  young  hero 
advances  with  that  pecuh'ar  mincing  gait  by 
means  of  which  our  Alcibiades,  Tchivilo  Plenk- 
ovitch,  produced  such  a  striking,  almost  medical, 
effect  on  old  women  and  young  girls,  the  same 
gait  which  we  see  in  our  loose-limbed  waiters, 
that  cream,  that  flower  of  Russian  dandyism, 
that  ne  plus  ultra  of  Russian  taste.  This  I 
maintain  without  joking ;  a  sack-like  grace- 
fulness, that's  an  artistic  ideal.  What  do 
you  think,  is  it  a  fine  type?  Does  it  present 
many  materials  for  painting,  for  sculpture? 
And  the  beauty  who  fascinates  the  young 
hero,  whose  "  face  is  as  red  as  the  blood  of 
the  hare  "  ?  ...  But  I  think  you're  not  listening 
to  me }  * 

Litvinov  started.  He  had  not,  in  fact,  heard 
what  Potugin  was  saying ;  he  kept  thinking, 
persistently  thinking  of  Irina,  of  his  last  inter- 
view with  her.  .  .  . 

*  I  beg  your  pardon,  Sozont  Ivanitch,*  he 
began,  *  but  I  'm  going  to  attack  you  again 
with  my  former  question  about  .  .  .  about 
Madame  Ratmirov.' 

Potugin  folded  up  his  newspaper  and  put  it 
in  his  pocket. 

'You  want  to  know  again  how  I  came  to 
know  her  ? ' 

*  No,  not  exactly.     I  should  like  to  hear  your 

162 


SMOKE 

opinion  .  ,  ,  on  the  part  she  played  in  Peters- 
burg.    What  was  that  part,  in  reality  ? ' 

*  I  really  don't  know  what  to  say  to  you,  Gri- 
gory  Mihalitch ;  I  was  brought  into  rather 
intimate  terms  with  Madame  Ratmirov  .  .  .  but 
quite  accidentally,  and  not  for  long.  I  never  got 
an  insight  into  her  world,  and  what  took  place 
in  it  remained  unknown  to  me.  There  was 
some  gossip  before  me,  but  as  you  know,  it's 
not  only  in  democratic  circles  that  slander 
reigns  supreme  among  us.  Besides  I  was  not 
inquisitive.  I  see  though,'  he  added,  after  a 
short  silence,  *  she  interests  you.' 

*  Yes ;  we  have  twice  talked  together  rather 
openly.     I  ask  myself,  though,  is  she  sincere  ? 

Potugin  looked  down.  *  When  she  is  carried 
away  by  feeling,  she  is  sincere,  like  all  women 
of  strong  passions.  Pride  too,  sometimes  pre- 
vents her  from  lying.' 

*  Is  she  proud  ?  I  should  rather  have  sup- 
posed she  was  capricious.' 

*  Proud  as  the  devil ;  but  that 's  no  harm.' 

*  I  fancy  she  sometimes  exaggerates.  .  .  .' 
'That's    nothing    either,    she's    sincere    all 

the  same.  Though  after  all,  how  can  you 
expect  truth  ?  The  best  of  those  society 
women  are  rotten  to  the  marrow  of  their 
bones.' 

'  But,  Sozont  Ivanitch,  if  you  remember,  you 

163 


SMOKB 

called  yourself  her  friend.     Didn't  you  drag  me 
almost  by  force  to  go  and  see  her  ? ' 

*  What  of  that  ?  she  asked  me  to  get  hold  of 
you  ;  and  I  thought,  why  not  ?  And  I  really 
am  her  friend.  She  has  her  good  qualities: 
she 's  very  kind,  that  is  to  say,  generous,  that 's 
to  say  she  gives  others  what  she  has  no  sort  of 
need  of  herself.  But  of  course  you  must  know 
her  at  least  as  well  as  I  do.' 

*  I  used  to  know  Irina  Pavlovna  ten  years  ago  ; 
but  since  then ' 

*Ah,  Grigory  Mihalitch,  why  do  you  say 
that?  Do  you  suppose  any  one's  character 
changes  ?  Such  as  one  is  in  one's  cradle,  such 
one  is  still  in  one's  tomb.  Or  perhaps  it  is' 
(here  Potugin  bowed  his  head  still  lower)  '  per- 
haps, you  're  afraid  of  falling  into  her  clutches  ? 
that 's  certainly  .  .  .  But  of  course  one  is  bound 
to  fall  into  some  woman's  clutches.* 

Litvinov  gave  a  constrained  laugh.  *  You 
think  so  ? ' 

'  There  's  no  escape.  Man  is  weak,  woman  is 
strong,  opportunity  is  all-powerful,  to  make  up 
one's  mind  to  a  joyless  life  is  hard,  to  forget 
oneself  utterly  is  impossible  .  .  .  and  on  one 
side  is  beauty  and  sympathy  and  warmth  and 
light, — how  is  one  to  resist  it  ?  Why,  one  runs 
like  a  child  to  its  nurse  Ah,  well,  afterwards 
to  be  sure  comes  cold  and  dnrkness  and  empti- 

164 


SMOKE 

ness  ...  in  due  course.  And  you  end  by  being 
strange  to  everything,  by  losing  comprehension 
of  everything.  At  first  you  don't  understand 
how  love  is  possible ;  afterwards  one  won  t 
understand  how  life  is  possible.' 

Litvinov  looked  at  Potugin,  and  it  struck 
him  that  he  had  never  yet  met  a  man  more 
lonely,  more  desolate  .  .  .  more  unhappy.  This 
time  he  was  not  shy,  he  was  not  stiff;  downcast 
and  pale,  his  head  on  his  breast,  and  his  hands 
on  his  knees,  he  sat  without  moving,  merely 
smiling  his  dejected  smile.  Litvinov  felt  sorry 
for  the  poor,  embittered,  eccentric  creature. 

'  Irina  Pavlovna  mentioned  among  other 
things,'  he  began  in  a  low  voice,  *  a  very  intimate 
friend  of  hers,  whose  name  if  I  remember  was 
Byelsky,  or  Dolsky.  .  .  .' 

Potugin  raised  his  mournful  eyes  and  looked 
at  Litvinov. 

*  Ah  !'  he  commented  thickly.  .  .  .  'She  men- 
tioned .  .  .  well,  what  of  it  ?  It 's  time,  though,' 
he  added  with  a  rather  artificial  yawn,  '  for  me 
to  be  getting  home — to  dinner.     Good-bye.' 

He  jumped  up  from  the  seat  and  made  off 
quickly  before  Litvinov  had  time  to  utter  a 
word.  .  .  .  His  compassion  gave  way  to  annoy- 
ance— annoyance  with  himself,  be  it  understood. 
Want  of  consideration  of  any  kind  was  foreign 
to  his  nature  ;   he  had  wished  to  express  his 

165 


SMOKE 

sympathy  for  Potugin,  and  it  had  resulted  in 
something  like  a  clumsy  insinuation.  With 
secret  dissatisfaction  in  his  heart,  he  went  back 
to  his  hotel. 

*  Rotten  to  the  marrow  of  her  bones/  he 
thought  a  little  later.  .  .  .  *but  proud  as  the 
devil !  She,  that  woman  who  is  almost  on  her 
knees  to  me,  proud  ?  proud  and  not  capricious  ? ' 

Litvinov  tried  to  drive  Irina's  image  out  of 
his  head,  but  he  did  not  succeed.  For  this  very 
reason  he  did  not  think  of  his  betrothed  ;  he 
felt  to-day  this  haunting  image  would  not  give 
up  its  place.  He  made  up  his  mind  to  await 
without  further  anxiety  the  solution  of  all  this 
'strange  business';  the  solution  could  not  be 
long  in  coming,  and  Litvinov  had  not  the 
slightest  doubt  it  would  turn  out  to  be  most 
innocent  and  natural.  So  he  fancied,  but 
meanwhile  he  was  not  only  haunted  by  Irina's 
image — every  word  she  had  uttered  kept  recur- 
ring in  its  turn  to  his  memory. 

The  waiter  brought  him  a  note :  it  was  from 
the  same  Irina : 

*  If  you  have  nothing  to  do  this  evening, 
come  to  me ;  I  shall  not  be  alone ;  I  shall 
have  guests,  and  you  will  get  a  closer  view  of 
our  set,  our  society.  I  want  you  very  much 
to  see  something  of  them  ;  I  fancy  they  will 
show  themselves  in   all   their  brilliance.     You 

1 66 


SMOKE 

ought  to  know  what  sort  of  atmosphere  I  am 
breathing.  Come ;  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  you, 
and  you  will  not  be  bored.  (Irina  had  spelt 
the  Russian  incorrectly  here.)  Prove  to  me 
that  our  explanation  to-day  has  made  any  sort 
of  misunderstanding  between  us  impossible 
for  ever. — Yours  devotedly,  I.' 

Litvinov  put  on  a  frock  coat  and  a  white  tie, 
and  set  off  to  Irina's.  *  All  this  is  of  no  impor- 
tance,' he  repeated  mentally  on  the  way,  '  as  for 
looking  at  them  .  .  .  why  shouldn't  I  have  a 
look  at  them  ?  It  will  be  curious.'  A  few  days 
before,  these  very  people  had  aroused  a  different 
sensation  in  him ;  they  had  aroused  his  indig- 
nation. 

He  walked  with  quickened  steps,  his  cap  pulled 
down  over  his  eyes,  and  a  constrained  smile  on 
his  lips,  while  Bambaev,  sitting  before  Weber's 
caf6,  and  pointing  him  out  from  a  distance  to 
Voroshilov  and  Pishtchalkin,  cried  excitedly  : 
*  Do  you  see  that  man  ?  He 's  a  stone  !  he 's  a 
rock!  he's  a  flint !ir 


167 


XV 


LiTVlNOV  found  rather  many  guests  at  Irina's. 
In  a  corner  at  a  card-table  were  sitting  three 
of  the  generals  of  the  picnic  :  the  stout  one, 
the  irascible  one,  and  the  condescending  one. 
They  were  playing  whist  with  dummy,  and  there 
is  no  word  in  the  language  of  man  to  express 
the  solemnity  with  which  they  dealt,  took  tricks, 
led  clubs  and  led  diamonds  .  .  .  there  was  no 
doubt  about  their  being  statesmen  now  !  These 
gallant  generals  left  to  mere  commoners,  aux 
bourgeois^  the  little  turns  and  phrases  commonly 
used  during  play,  and  uttered  only  the  most  in- 
dispensable syllables ;  the  stout  general  how- 
ever permitted  himself  to  jerk  off  between  two 
deals  :  '  Ce  satane  as  de  pique  /  *  Among  the 
visitors  Litvinov  recognised  ladies  who  had 
been  present  at  the  picnic ;  but  there  were 
others  there  also  whom  he  had  not  seen  before. 
There  was  one  so  ancient  that  it  seemed  every 
instant  as  though  she  would  fall  to  pieces : 
she  shrugged   her  bare,  gruesome,  dingy  grey 

i68 


SMOKE 

shoulders,  and,  covering  her  mouth  with  her  fan, 
leered  languishingly  with  her  absolutely  death- 
like eyes  upon  Ratmirov ;  he  paid  her  much 
attention  ;  she  was  held  in  great  honour  in  the 
highest  society,  as  the  last  of  the  Maids  of 
Honour  of  the  Empress  Catherine.  At  the 
window,  dressed  like  a  shepherdess,  sat  Coun- 
tess S., '  the  Queen  of  the  Wasps,'  surrounded  by 
young  men.  Among  them  the  celebrated 
millionaire  and  beau  Finikov  was  conspicuous 
for  his  supercilious  deportment,  his  absolutely 
flat  skull,  and  his  expression  of  soulless 
brutality,  worthy  of  a  Khan  of  Bucharia,  or 
a  Roman  Heliogabalus.  Another  lady,  also 
a  countess,  known  by  the  pet  name  of  Lise^  was 
talking  to  a  long-haired,  fair,  and  pale  spiritual- 
istic medium.  Beside  them  was  standing  a 
gentleman,  also  pale  and  long-haired,  who  kept 
laughing  in  a  meaning  way.  This  gentleman 
also  believed  in  spiritualism,  ,ut  added  to  that 
an  interest  in  prophecy,  and,  on  the  basis  of 
the  Apocalypse  and  the  Talmud,  was  in  the 
habit  of  foretelling  all  kinds  of  marvellous  events. 
Not  a  single  one  of  these  events  had  come  to 
pass ;  but  he  was  in  no  wise  disturbed  by  that 
fact,  and  went  on  prophesying  as  before.  At 
the  piano,  the  musical  genius  had  installed  him- 
self, the  rough  diamond,  who  had  stirred  Potu- 
gin  to  such  indignation  ;  he  was  striking  chords 

169 


SMOKE 

with  a  careless  hand,  ctune  main  distraite^  and 
kept  staring  vaguely  about  him.  Irina  was  sit- 
ting on  a  sofa  between  Prince  Koko  and 
Madame  H.,  once  a  celebrated  beauty  and 
wit,  who  had  long  ago  become  a  repulsive  old 
crone,  with  the  odour  of  sanctity  and  evapor- 
ated sinfulness  about  her.  On  catching  sight 
of  Litvinov,  Irina  blushed  and  got  up,  and 
when  he  went  up  to  her,  she  pressed  his  hand 
warmly.  She  was  wearing  a  dress  of  black 
crepon,  relieved  by  a  few  inconspicuous  gold 
ornaments ;  her  shoulders  were  a  dead  white, 
while  her  face,  pale  too,  under  the  momentary 
flood  of  crimson  overspreading  it,  was  breathing 
with  the  triumph  of  beauty,  and  not  of  beauty 
alone  ;  a  hidden,  almost  ironical  happiness  was 
shining  in  her  half-closed  eyes,  and  quivering 
about  her  lips  and  nostrils.  .  .  . 

Ratmirov  approached  Litvinov  and  after 
exchanging  with  him  his  customary  civilities, 
unaccompanied  however  by  his  customary  play- 
fulness, he  presented  him  to  two  or  three  ladies  : 
the  ancient  ruin,  the  Queen  of  the  Wasps,  Coun- 
tess Liza  .  .  .  they  gave  him  a  rather  gracious 
reception.  Litvinov  did  not  belong  to  their 
set ;  but  he  was  good-looking,  extremely  so, 
indeed,  and  the  expressive  features  of  his  youth- 
ful face  awakened  their  interest.  Only  he  did 
not  know  how  to  fasten  that  interest  upon  him- 

170 


SMOKB 

self;  he  was  unaccustomed  to  society  and  was 
conscious  of  some  embarrassment,  added  to 
which  the  stout  general  stared  at  him  persist- 
ently. *  Aha  !  lubberly  civilian  !  free-thinker ! ' 
that  fixed  heavy  stare  seemed  to  be  saying : 
'  down  on  your  knees  to  us ;  crawl  to  kiss  our 
hands  ! '  Irina  came  to  Litvinov's  aid.  She  man- 
aged so  adroitly  that  he  got  into  a  corner  near 
the  door,  a  little  behind  her.  As  she  addressed 
him,  she  had  each  time  to  turn  round  to  him, 
and  every  time  he  admired  the  exquisite  curve 
of  her  splendid  neck,  he  drank  in  the  subtle 
fragrance  of  her  hair.  An  expression  of  grati- 
tude, deep  and  calm,  never  left  her  face ;  he 
could  not  help  seeing  that  gratitude  and  no- 
thing else  was  what  those  smiles,  those  glances 
expressed,  and  he  too  was  all  aglow  with  the 
same  emotion,  and  he  felt  shame,  and  delight  and 
dread  at  once  .  .  .  and  at  the  same  time  she 
seemed  continually  as  though  she  would  ask, 
'Well?  what  do  you  think  of  them?'  With 
special  clearness  Litvinov  heard  this  unspoken 
question  whenever  any  one  of  the  party  was 
guilty  of  some  vulgar  phrase  or  act,  and  that 
occurred  more  than  once  during  the  evening. 
Once  she  did  not  even  conceal  her  feelings,  and 
laughed  aloud. 

Countess  Liza,  a  lady  of  superstitious  bent, 
with  an  inclination  for  everything  extraordinary, 

171 


SMOKE 

after  discoursing  to  her  heart's  content  with  the 
spirituah'st  upon  Home,  turning  tables,  self- 
playing  concertinas,  and  so  on,  wound  up  by 
asking  him  whether  there  were  animals  which 
could  be  influenced  by  mesmerism. 

*  There  is  one  such  animal  any  way,'  Prince 
Koko  declared  from  some  way  off.  '  You  know 
Melvanovsky,  don't  you  ?  They  put  him  to 
sleep  before  me,  and  didn't  he  snore,  he, 
he!' 

*  You  are  very  naughty,  man  prince ;  I  am 
speaking  of  real  animals,/^ /^r/^  des  betes* 

*  Mais  rnoi  aussi^  inadame,  je  parle  d^une 
bete.  .  .  .' 

*  There  are  such,'  put  in  the  spiritualist ;  '  for 
instance — crabs  ;  they  are  very  nervous,  and 
are  easily  thrown  into  a  cataleptic  state.' 

The  countess  was  astounded.  '  What  ? 
Crabs !  Really  ?  Oh,  that 's  awfully  interest- 
ing !  Now,  that  I  should  like  to  see,  M'sieu 
Luzhin,'  she  added  to  a  young  man  with  a  face 
as  stony  as  a  new  doll's,  and  a  stony  collar  (he 
prided  himself  on  the  fact  that  he  had  bedewed 
the  aforesaid  face  and  collar  with  the  sprays  of 
Niagara  and  the  Nubian  Nile,  though  he  re- 
membered nothing  of  all  his  travels,  and  cared 
for  nothing  but  Russian  puns  .  .  .).  *  M'sieu 
Luzhin,  if  you  would  be  so  good,  do  bring  us  a 
crab  quick.* 

172 


SMOKE 

M'sieu  Luzhin  smirked.  *  Quick  must  it  be, 
or  quickly  ?  '  he  queried. 

The  countess  did  not  understand  him.  *  Mais 
out,  a  crab,'  she  repeated,  '  une  ecrevisse* 

'  Eh  ?  what  is  it  ?  a  crab  ?  a  crab  ? '  the 
Countess  S.  broke  in  harshly.  The  absence  of 
M.  Verdier  irritated  her  ;  she  could  not  imagine 
why  Irina  had  not  invited  that  most  fascinating 
of  Frenchmen.  The  ancient  ruin,  who  had  long 
since  ceased  understanding  anything — moreover 
she  was  completely  deaf — only  shook  her  head. 

*  Otii,  ouiy  vous  allez  voir,  M'sieu  Luzhin, 
please.  .  .  .' 

The  young  traveller  bowed,  went  out,  and  re- 
turned quickly.  A  waiter  walked  behind  him, 
and  grinning  from  ear  to  ear,  carried  in  a  dish, 
on  which  a  large  black  crab  was  to  be  seen. 

*  Voici^  madamel  cried  Luzhin  ;  '  now  we  can 
proceed  to  the  operation  on  cancer.  Ha,  ha, 
ha  ! '  (Russians  are  always  the  first  to  laugh  at 
their  own  witticisms.) 

*  He,  he,  he ! '  Count  Kok6  did  his  duty  con- 
descendingly as  a  good  patriot,  and  patron  of 
all  national  products. 

(We  beg  the  reader  not  to  be  amazed  and  in- 
dignant ;  who  can  say  confidently  for  himself 
that  sitting  in  the  stalls  of  the  Alexander 
Theatre,  and  infected  by  its  atmosphere,  he  has 
not  applauded   even  worse  puns  ?) 

173 


SMOKE 

^  Merci,  merci!  said  the  countess.  *  A  lions ^ 
allons,  Monsieur  Fox,  niontrez  nous  qa! 

The  waiter  put  the  dish  down  on  a  little 
round  table.  There  was  a  slight  movement 
among  the  guests  ;  several  heads  were  craned 
forward  ;  only  the  generals  at  the  card-table 
preserved  the  serene  solemnity  of  their  pose. 
The  spiritualist  ruffled  up  his  hair,  frowned,  and, 
approaching  the  table,  began  waving  his  hands 
in  the  air  ;  the  crab  stretched  itself,  backed, 
and  raised  its  claws.  The  spiritualist  repeated 
and  quickened  his  movements ;  the  crab 
stretched  itself  as  before. 

•  Mais  que  doit-elle  done  faire  ?  *  inquired  the 
countess. 

*  Elle  dod  Tester  immobile  et  se  dresser  sur  sa 
quioul  replied  Mr.  Fox,  with  a  strong  American 
accent,  and  he  brandished  his  fingers  with  con-  I 
vulsive  energy  over  the  dish  ;  but  the  mesmerism 
had  no  effect,  the  crab  continued  to  move.  The 
spiritualist  declared  that  he  was  not  himself,  and 
retired  with  an  air  of  displeasure  from  the  table. 
The  countess  began  to  console  him,  by  assuring 
him  that  similar  failures  occurred  sometimes 
even  with  Mr.  Home.  .  .  Prince  Kok6  con- 
firmed her  words.  The  authority  on  the 
Apocalypse  and  the  Talmud  stealthily  went 
up  to  the  table,  and  making  rapid  but  vigorous 
thrusts  with  his  fingers  in  the  direction  of  the 

174 


SMOKE 

crab,  he  too  tried  his  luck,  but  without  success ; 
no  symptom  of  catalepsy  showed  itself.  Then 
the  waiter  was  called,  and  told  to  take  away  the 
crab,  which  he  accordingly  did,  grinning  from 
ear  to  ear,  as  before ;  he  could  be  heard  explod- 
ing outside  the  door.  .  .  .  There  was  much 
laughter  afterwards  in  the  kitchen  iiber  diese 
Russen.  The  self-taught  genius,  who  had  gone 
on  striking  notes  during  the  experiments  with 
the  crab,  dwelling  on  melancholy  chords,  on  the 
ground  that  there  was  no  knowing  what  influ- 
ence music  might  have — the  self-taught  genius 
played  his  invariable  waltz,  and,  of  course,  was 
deemed  worthy  of  the  most  flattering  applause. 
Pricked  on  by  rivalry.  Count  H.,  our  incompar- 
able dilettante  (see  Chapter  I.),  gave  a  little  song 
of  his  own  composition,  cribbed  wholesale  from 
Offenbach.  Its  playful  refrain  to  the  words : 
'Quelceuf?  guelbceuf?'  set  almost  all  the  ladies' 
heads  swinging  to  right  and  to  left ;  one  went 
so  far  as  to  hum  the  tune  lightly,  and  the  irre- 
pressible, inevitable  word,  '  Charmant !  char- 
tnant ! '  was  fluttering  on  every  one's  lips.  Irina 
exchanged  a  glance  with  Litvinov,  and  again 
the  same  secret,  ironical  expression  quivered 
about  her  lips.  .  .  .  But  a  little  later  it  was  still 
more  strongly  marked,  there  was  even  a  shade 
of  malice  in  it,  when  Prince  Kok6,  that  repre- 
sentative and  champion  of  the  interests  of  the 

175 


SMOKE 

nobility,  thought  fit  to  propound  his  views  to 
the  spiritualist,  and,  of  course,  gave  utterance 
before  long  to  his  famous  phrase  about  the 
shock  to  the  principle  of  property,  accompanied 
naturally  by  an  attack  on  democrats.  The 
spiritualist's  American  blood  was  stirred  ;  he 
began  to  argue.  The  prince,  as  his  habit  was, 
at  once  fell  to  shouting  at  the  top  of  his  voice ; 
instead  of  any  kind  of  argument  he  repeated 
incessantly  :  *  Oest  absurde  !  cela  tCa  pas  le  sens 
comnmn  !  *  The  millionaire  Finikov  began  say- 
ing insulting  things,  without  much  heed  to  whom 
they  referred  ;  the  Talmudist's  piping  notes  and 
even  the  Countess  S.'s  jarring  voice  could  be 
heard.  ...  In  fact,  almost  the  same  incongru- 
ous uproar  arose  as  at  Gubaryov's ;  the  only 
difference  was  that  here  there  was  no  beer  nor 
tobacco- smoke,  and  every  one  was  better 
dressed.  Ratmirov  tried  to  restore  tranquillity 
(the  generals  manifested  their  displeasure,  Boris's 
exclamation  could  be  heard,  *  Eiicore  cette  satan^e 
politique  !')y  but  his  efforts  were  not  successful, 
and  at  that  point,  a  high  official  of  the  stealthily 
inquisitorial  type,  who  was  present,  and  under- 
took to  present  le  resume  en  peu  de  mots, 
sustained  a  defeat :  in  fact  he  so  hummed 
and  hawed,  so  repeated  himself,  and  was  so 
obviously  incapable  of  listening  to  or  taking  in 
the  answers  he  received,  and  so  unmistakably 

176 


SMOKE 

failed  to  perceive  himself  what  precisely  con- 
stituted la  question  that  no  other  result  could 
possibly  have  been  anticipated.  And  then  too 
Irina  was  slily  provoking  the  disputants  and 
setting  them  against  one  another,  constantly 
exchanging  glances  and  slight  signs  with  Lit- 
vinov  as  she  did  so.  .  .  .  But  he  was  sitting  like 
one  spell-bound,  he  was  hearing  nothing,  and 
waiting  for  nothing  but  for  those  splendid  eyes 
to  sparkle  again,  that  pale,  tender,  mischievous, 
exquisite  face  to  flash  upon  him  again.  .  .  . 
It  ended  by  the  ladies  growing  restive,  and  re- 
questing that  the  dispute  should  cease.  .  .  . 
Ratmirov  entreated  the  dilettante  to  sing  his 
song  again,  and  the  self-taught  genius  once 
more  played  his  waltz.  .  .  . 

Litvinov  stayed  till  after  midnight,  and  went 
away  later  than  all  the  rest.  The  conversation 
had  in  the  course  of  the  evening  touched  upon 
a  number  of  subjects,  studiously  avoiding  any- 
thing of  the  faintest  interest ;  the  generals,  after 
finishing  their  solemn  game,  solemnly  joined  in 
it :  the  influence  of  these  statesmen  was  at 
once  apparent.  The  conversation  turned  upon 
notorieties  of  the  Parisian  demi-monde,  with 
whose  names  and  talents  every  one  seemed 
intimately  acquainted,  on  Sardou's  latest  play, 
on  a  novel  of  About's,  on  Patti  in  the  Traviata. 
Some  one  proposed  a  game  of  *  secretary,'  an 

177  M 


SMOKE 

secretaire ;  but  it  was  not  a  success.  The 
answers  given  were  pointless,  and  often  not  free 
from  grammatical  mistakes  ;  the  stout  general 
related  that  he  had  once  in  answer  to  the  ques- 
tion :  Qu'est-ce  que  V amour  ?  replied,  Une  colique 
remonUe  au  cceur,  and  promptly  went  off  into 
his  wooden  guffaw;  the  ancient  ruin  with  a 
mighty  effort  struck  him  with  her  fan  on  the 
arm  ;  a  flake  of  plaster  was  shaken  off  her  fore- 
head by  this  rash  action.  The  old  crone  was 
beginning  a  reference  to  the  Slavonic  principali- 
ties and  the  necessity  of  orthodox  propaganda 
on  the  Danube,  but,  meeting  with  no  response, 
she  subsided  with  a  hiss.  In  reality  they  talked 
more  about  Home  than  anything  else ;  even 
the  '  Queen  of  the  Wasps '  described  how  hands 
had  once  crept  about  her,  and  how  she  had  seen 
them,  and  put  her  own  ring  on  one  of  them. 
It  was  certainly  a  triumph  for  Irina :  even  if 
Litvinov  had  paid  more  attention  to  what  was 
being  said  around  him,  he  still  could  not  have 
gleaned  one  single  sincere  saying,  one  single 
clever  thought,  one  single  new  fact  from  all 
their  disconnected  and  lifeless  babble.  Even 
in  their  cries  and  exclamations,  there  was  no 
note  of  real  feeling,  in  their  slander  no  real  heat. 
Only  at  rare  intervals  under  the  mask  of  assumed 
patriotic  indignation,  or  of  assumed  contempt 
and   indifference,  the  dread  of  possible  losses 

178 


SMOKE 

could  be  heard  in  a  plaintive  whimper,  and  a 
few  names,  which  will  not  be  forgotten  by 
posterity,  were  pronounced  with  gnashing  of 
teeth  .  .  .  And  not  a  drop  of  living  water  under 
all  this  noise  and  wrangle !  What  stale,  what 
unprofitable  nonsense,  what  wretched  trivialities 
were  absorbing  all  these  heads  and  hearts,  and 
not  for  that  one  evening,  not  in  society  only, 
but  at  home  too,  every  hour  and  every  day,  in 
all  the  depth  and  breadth  of  their  existence ! 
And  what  ignorance,  when  all  is  said !  What 
lack  of  understanding  of  all  on  which  human 
life  is  built,  all  by  which  life  is  made  beautiful ! 

On  parting  from  Litvinov,  Irina  again  pressed 
his  hand  and  whispered  significantly,  *  Well  ? 
Are  you  pleased  ?  Have  you  seen  enough  ? 
Do  you  like  it  ? '  He  made  her  no  reply,  but 
merely  bowed  low  in  silence. 

Left  alone  with  her  husband,  Irina  was  just 
going  to  her  bedroom.  .  .  .  He  stopped  her. 

^ Je  vous  ai  beaucoup  ad'^n^rh  ce  soir,  inadame* 
he  observed,  smoking  a  cigarette,  and  leaning 
against  the  mantelpiece,  ^vous  vous  etes  parfaite- 
ment  nioquee  de  nous  toiis^ 

''Pas  plus  cette  fois-ci  que  les  autresl  she 
answered  indifferently. 

*  How  do  you  mean  me  to  understand  you  ?  ' 
asked  Ratmirov. 

*  As  you  like.' 

179 


SMOKE 

*  Hm.  Cest  clair'  Ratmirov  warily,  like  a  cat, 
knocked  off  the  ash  of  the  cigarette  with  the 
tip  of  the  long  nail  of  his  little  finger.  *  Oh,  by 
the  way  !  This  new  friend  of  yours — what  the 
dickens  is  his  name? — Mr.  Litvinov — doubtless 
enjoys  the  reputation  of  a  very  clever  man.' 

At  the  name  of  Litvinov,  Irina  turned 
quickly  round. 

'  What  do  you  mean  to  say  ? ' 
The  general  smiled. 

*  He  keeps  very  quiet  .  .  .  one  can  see  he  *s 
afraid  of  compromising  himself 

Irina  too  smiled  ;  it  was  a  very  different  smile 
from  her  husband's. 

*  Better  keep  quiet  than  talk  ...  as  some 
people  talk.' 

'  AttrapH^  answered  Ratmirov  with  feigned 
submissiveness.  'Joking  apart,  he  has  a  very 
interesting  face.  Such  a  .  .  .  concentrated 
expression  .  .  .  and  his  whole  bearing.  .  .  . 
Yes.  .  .  .'  The  general  straightened  his  cravat, 
and  bending  his  head  stared  at  his  own  mous- 
tache. '  He 's  a  republican,  I  imagine,  of  the  same 
sort  as  your  other  friend,  Mr.  Potugin  ;  that 's 
another  of  your  clever  fellows  who  are  dumb.' 

Irina's  brows  were  slowly  raised  above  her 
wide  open  clear  eyes,  while  her  lips  were 
tightly  pressed  together  and  faintly  curved. 

'  What 's  your  object  in  saying  that,  Valerian 

1 80 


SMOKE 

Vladimiritch,'  she  remarked,  as  though  sympa- 
thetically. '  You  are  wasting  your  arrows  on  the 
empty  air.  .  .  .  We  are  not  in  Russia,  and 
there  is  no  one  to  hear  you.' 

Ratmirov  was  stung. 

'That's  not  merely  my  opinion,  Irina  Pav- 
lovna,'  he  began  in  a  voice  suddenly  guttural  ; 
'other  people  too  notice  that  that  gentleman 
has  the  air  of  a  conspirator.' 

'  Really  ?  who  are  these  other  people  ?  * 

*  Well,  Boris  for  instance ' 

'  What  ?  was  it  necessary  for  him  too  to  ex- 
press his  opinion  ? ' 

Irina  shrugged  her  shoulders  as  though 
shrinking  from  the  cold,  and  slowly  passed  the 
tips  of  her  fingers  over  them. 

'  Him  .  .  .  yes,  him.  Allow  me  to  remark, 
Irina  Pavlovna,  that  you  seem  angry ;  and  you 
know  if  one  is  angry ' 

'  Am  I  angry  ?    Oh,  what  for  ?  ' 

*  I  don't  know ;  possibly  you  have  been  dis- 
agreeably affected  by  the  observation  I  per- 
mitted myself  to  make  in  reference  to ' 

Ratmirov  stammered. 

'In  reference  to?'  Irina  repeated  interroga- 
tively. *  Ah,  if  you  please,  no  irony,  and  make 
haste.     I  'm  tired  and  sleepy.' 

She   took   a    candle   from    the    table.      '  In 

reference  to .-* ' 

i8i 


SMOKE 

*  Well,  in  reference  to  this  same  Mr.  Litvinov; 
since  there 's  no  doubt  now  that  you  take  a 
great  interest  in  him/ 

Irina  lifted  the  hand  in  which  she  was  hold- 
ing the  candlestick,  till  the  flame  was  brought  on 
a  level  with  her  husband's  face,  and  attentively, 
almost  with  curiosity,  looking  him  straight  in 
the  face,  she  suddenly  burst  into  laughter. 

'  What  is  it  ? '  asked  Ratmirov  scowling. 

Irina  went  on  laughing. 

*Well,  what  is  it?'  he  repeated,  and  he 
stamped  his  foot. 

He  felt  insulted,  wounded,  and  at  the  same 
time  against  his  will  he  was  impressed  by  the 
beauty  of  this  woman,  standing  so  lightly  and 
boldly  before  him  .  .  .  she  was  tormenting  him. 
He  saw  everything,  all  her  charms — even  the 
pink  reflection  of  the  delicate  nails  on  her 
slender  finger-tips,  as  they  tightly  clasped  the 
dark  bronze  of  the  heavy  candlestick  —  even 
that  did  not  escape  him  .  .  .  while  the  insult 
cut  deeper  and  deeper  into  his  heart.  And  still 
Irina  laughed. 

'  What  ?  you  ?  you  jealous  ? '  she  brought  out 
at  last,  and  turning  her  back  on  her  husband 
she  went  out  of  the  room.  *  He 's  jealous  ! ' 
he  heard  outside  the  door,  and  again  came  the 
sound  of  her  laugh. 

Ratmirov  looked  moodily  after  his  wife  ;  he 

182 


SMOKE 

could  not  even  then  help  noticing  the  bewitch- 
ing grace  of  her  figure,  her  movements,  and 
with  a  violent  blow,  crushing  the  cigarette  on 
the  marble  slab  of  the  mantelpiece,  he  flung  it 
to  a  distance.  His  cheeks  had  suddenly  turned 
white,  a  spasm  passed  over  the  lower  half  of  his 
face,  and  with  a  dull  animal  stare  his  eyes 
strayed  about  the  floor,  as  though  in  search  of 
something.  .  .  .  Every  semblance  of  refinement 
had  vanished  from  his  face.  Such  an  expres- 
sion it  must  have  worn  when  he  was  flogging 
the  White  Russian  peasants. 

Litvinov  had  gone  home  to  his  rooms,  and 
sitting  down  to  the  table  he  had  buried  his 
head  in  both  hands,  and  remained  a  long  while 
without  stirring.  He  got  up  at  last,  opened  a 
box,  and  taking  out  a  pocket-book,  he  drew 
out  of  an  inner  pocket  a  photograph  of  Tatyana. 
Her  face  gazed  out  mournfully  at  him,  looking 
ugly  and  old,  as  photographs  usually  do. 
Litvinov's  betrothed  was  a  girl  of  Great 
Russian  blood,  a  blonde,  rather  plump,  and 
with  the  features  of  her  face  rather  heavy,  but 
with  a  wonderful  expression  of  kindness  and 
goodness  in  her  intelligent,  clear  brown  eyes, 
with  a  serene,  white  brow,  on  which  it  seemed 
as  though  a  sunbeam  always  rested.  For  a 
long  time  Litvinov  did  not  take  his  eyes  from 
the  photograph,  then  he  pushed  it  gently  away 

183 


SMOKE 

and  again  clutched  his  head  in  both  hands. 
'All  is  at  an  end!'  he  whispered  at  last,  'Irina! 
Irina!' 

Only  now,  only  at  that  instant,  he  realised  that 
he  was  irrevocably,  senselessly,  in  love  with  her, 
that  he  had  loved  her  since  the  very  day  of 
that  first  meeting  with  her  at  the  Old  Castle, 
that  he  had  never  ceased  to  love  her.  And  yet 
how  astounded,  how  incredulous,  how  scornful, 
he  would  have  been,  had  he  been  told  so  a  few 
hours  back ! 

'But  Tanya, Tanya,  my  God!  Tanya!  Tanya!' 
he  repeated  in  contrition  ;  while  Irina's  shape 
fairly  rose  before  his  eyes  in  her  black  almost 
funereal  garb,  with  the  radiant  calm  of  victory 
on  her  marble  white  face. 


184 


XVI 

LiTVINOV  did  not  sleep  all  night,  and  did  not 
undress.  He  was  very  miserable.  As  an 
honest  and  straightforward  man,  he  realised 
the  force  of  obligations,  the  sacredness  of  duty, 
and  would  have  been  ashamed  of  any  double 
dealing  with  himself,  his  weakness,  his  fault. 
At  first  he  was  overcome  by  apathy  ;  it  was  long 
before  he  could  throw  off  the  gloomy  burden  of 
a  single  half-conscious,  obscure  sensation  ;  then 
terror  took  possession  of  him  at  the  thought 
that  the  future,  his  almost  conquered  future,  had 
slipped  back  into  the  darkness,  that  his  home, 
the  solidly-built  home  he  had  only  just  raised, 
was  suddenly  tottering  about  him.  .  .  . 

He  began  reproaching  himself  without  mercy, 
but  at  once  checked  his  own  vehemence. 
'  What  feebleness  ! '  he  thought.  *  It 's  no  time 
for  self-reproach  and  cowardice  ;  now  I  must  act. 
Tanya  is  my  betrothed,  she  has  faith  in  my  love, 
my  honour,  we  are  bound  together  for  life,  and 
cannot,  must  not,  be  put  asunder.'     He  vividly 

185 


SMOKE 

pictured  to  himself  all  Tanya's  qualities,  men- 
tally he  picked  them  out  and  reckoned  them 
up  ;  he  was  trying  to  call  up  feeling  and  tender- 
ness in  himself.  '  One  thing  's  left  for  me,'  he 
thought  again,  *to  run  away,  to  run  away 
directly,  without  waiting  for  her  arrival,  to 
hasten  to  meet  her ;  whether  I  suffer,  whether 
I  am  wretched  with  Tanya — that 's  not  likely — 
but  in  any  case  to  think  of  that,  to  take  that 
into  consideration  is  useless ;  I  must  do  my 
duty,  if  I  die  for  it !  But  you  have  no  right  to 
deceive  her,'  whispered  another  voice  within  him. 
*  You  have  no  right  to  hide  from  her  the  change 
in  your  feelings ;  it  may  be  that  when  she 
knows  you  love  another  woman,  she  will  not  be 
willing  to  become  your  wife  ?  Rubbish !  rub- 
bish ! '  he  answered,  *  that 's  all  sophistry, 
shameful  double-dealing,  deceitful  conscienti- 
ousness ;  I  have  no  right  not  to  keep  my  word, 
that 's  the  thing.  Well,  so  be  it.  .  .  .  Then  I  must 
go  away  from  here,  without  seeing  the  other.  .  .  .' 
But  at  that  point  Litvinov's  heart  throbbed 
with  anguish,  he  turned  cold,  physically  cold,  a 
momentary  shiver  passed  over  him,  his  teeth 
chattered  weakly.  He  stretched  and  yawned, 
as  though  he  were  in  a  fever.  Without  dwell- 
ing longer  on  his  last  thought,  choking  back 
that  thought,  turning  away  from  it,  he  set 
himself  to   marvelling   and    wondering  in  per- 

i86 


SMOKE 

plexity  how  he  could  again  .  .  .  again  love 
that  corrupt  worldly  creature,  all  of  whose 
surroundings  were  so  hateful,  so  repulsive  to 
him.  He  tried  to  put  to  himself  the  question  : 
*  What  nonsense,  do  you  really  love  her  ? '  and 
could  only  wring  his  hands  in  despair.  He  was 
still  marvelling  and  wondering,  and  suddenly 
there  rose  up  before  his  eyes,  as  though  from 
a  soft  fragrant  mist,  a  seductive  shape,  shining 
eyelashes  were  lifted,  and  softly  and  irre- 
sistibly the  marvellous  eyes  pierced  him  to  the 
heart  and  a  voice  was  singing  with  sweetness 
in  his  ears,  and  resplendent  shoulders,  the 
shoulders  of  a  young  queen,  were  breathing 
with  voluptuous  freshness  and  warmth.  .  .  , 

Towards  morning  a  determination  was  at 
last  fully  formed  in  Litvinov's  mind.  He 
decided  to  set  off  that  day  to  meet  Tatyana,  and 
seeing  Irina  for  the  last  time,  to  tell  her,  since 
there  was  nothing  else  for  it,  the  whole  truth, 
and  to  part  from  her  for  ever. 

He  set  in  order  and  packed  his  things,  waited 
till  twelve  o'clock,  and  started  to  go  to  her. 
But  at  the  sight  of  her  half-curtained  windows 
Litvinov's  heart  fairly  failed  him  ...  he  could 
not  summon  up  courage  to  enter  the  hotel.  He 
walked  once  or  twice  up  and  down  Lichtenthaler 
AUee.      *  A  very  good  day  to  Mr.  Litvinov  ! ' 

187 


SMOKE 

he  suddenly  heard  an  ironical  voice  call  from 
the  top  of  a  swiftly-moving  '  dogcart.'  Litvinov 
raised  his  eyes  and  saw  General  Ratmirov 
sitting  beside  Prince  M.,  a  well-known  sports- 
man and  fancier  of  English  carriages  and 
horses.  The  prince  was  driving,  the  general 
was  leaning  over  on  one  side,  grinning,  while 
he  lifted  his  hat  high  above  his  head.  Lit- 
vinov bowed  to  him,  and  at  the  same  instant, 
as  though  he  were  obeying  a  secret  command, 
he  set  off  at  a  run  towards  Irina's. 

She  was  at  home.  He  sent  up  his  name  ;  he 
was  at  once  received.  When  he  went  in,  she 
was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  She 
was  wearing  a  morning  blouse  with  wide  open 
sleeves  ;  her  face,  pale  as  the  day  before,  but 
not  fresh  as  it  had  been  then,  expressed  weari- 
ness ;  the  languid  smile  with  which  she  welcomed 
her  visitor  emphasised  that  expression  even 
more  clearly.  She  held  out  her  hand  to  him  in 
a  friendly  way,  but  absent-mindedly. 

'  Thanks  for  coming,'  she  began  in  a  plaintive 
voice,  and  she  sank  into  a  low  chair.  '  I  am 
not  very  well  this  morning  ;  I  spent  a  bad 
night.  Well,  what  have  you  to  say  about  last 
night?     Wasn't  I  right?* 

Litvinov  sat  down. 

*  I  have  come  to  you,  Irina  Parlovna,'  he 
began. 

i88 


SMOKE 

She  instantly  sat  up  and  turned  round  ;  her 
eyes  simply  fastened  upon  Litvinov. 

'  What  is  it/  she  cried.  '  You  're  pale  as  death, 
you  're  ill.     What 's  the  matter  with  you  ? ' 

Litvinov  was  confused. 

'With  me,  Irina  Pavlovna?' 

'  Have  you  had  bad  news  ?  Some  misfortune 
has  happened,  tell  me,  tell  me ' 

Litvinov  in  his  turn  looked  at  Irina. 

*  I  have  had  no  bad  news,'  he  brought  out 
not  without  effort,  *  but  a  misfortune  has  certainly 
happened,  a  great  misfortune  .  .  .  and  it  has 
brought  me  to  you.' 

*  A  misfortune  ?     What  is  it  ?  * 
*Why  .  .  .  that ' 

Litvinov  tried  to  go  on  .  .  .  and  could  not. 
He  only  pinched  his  hands  together  so  that 
his  fingers  cracked.  Irina  was  bending  forward 
and  seemed  turned  to  stone. 

*  Oh  !  I  love  you  ! '  broke  at  last  with  a  low 
groan  from  Litvinov's  breast,  and  he  turned 
away,  as  though  he  would  hide  his  face. 

'  What,  Grigory  Mihalitch,  you '  .  .  .  Irina 
too  could  not  finish  her  sentence,  and  leaning 
back  in  her  chair,  she  put  both  her  hands  to  her 
eyes.     'You  .  .  .  love  me.* 

'  Yes  .  .  .  yes  .  .  .  yes,'  he  repeated  with 
bitterness,  turning  his  head  further  and  further 
away. 

189 


SMOKE 

Everything  was  silent  in  the  room  ;  a  butter- 
fly that  had  flown  in  was  fluttering  its  wings 
and  struggHng  between  the  curtain  and  the 
window. 

The  first  to  speak  was  Litvinov. 

*  That,  Irina  Pavlovna,'  he  began,  *  that  is  the 
misfortune,  which  .  .  .  has  befallen  me,  which 
I  ought  to  have  foreseen  and  avoided,  if  I  had 
not  now  just  as  in  the  Moscow  days  been 
carried  off  my  feet  at  once.  It  seems  fate  is 
pleased  to  force  me  once  again  through  you 
to  suffentortures,  which  one  would  have  thought 
should  not  be  repeated  again.  ...  It  was 
not  without  cause  I  struggled.  ...  I  tried  to 
struggle ;  but  of  course  there 's  no  escaping 
one's  fate.  And  I  tell  you  all  this  to  put  an 
end  at  once  to  this  .  .  .  this  tragic  farce,'  he 
added  with  a  fresh  outburst  of  shame  and 
bitterness. 

Litvinov  was  silent  again ;  the  butterfly  was 
struggling  and  fluttering  as  before.  Irina  did  not 
take  her  hands  from  her  face. 

'  And  you  are  not  mistaken  ? '  her  whisper 
sounded  from  under  those  white,  bloodless- 
looking  hands. 

'  I  am  not  mistaken/  answered  Litvinov  in  a 
colourless  voice.  *  I  love  you,  as  I  have  never 
loved  any  one  but  you.  I  am  not  going  to 
reproach  you  ;  that  would  be  too  foolish ;  I  'm 

190 


SMOKE 

not  going  to  tell  you  that  perhaps  nothing  of 
all  this  would  have  happened  if  you  yourself 
had  behaved  differently  with  me.  .  .  .  Of  course, 
I  alone  am  to  blame,  my  self-confidence  has 
been  my  ruin  ;  I  am  deservedly  punished,  and 
you  could  not  have  anticipated  it.  Of  course 
you  did  not  consider  that  it  would  have  been 
far  less  dangerous  for  me  if  you  had  not  been 
so  keenly  alive  to  your  wrong  .  .  .  your  sup- 
posed wrong  to  me ;  and  had  not  wished  to 
make  up  for  it  .  .  .  but  what's  done  can't  be 
undone.  I  only  wanted  to  make  clear  my 
position  to  you  ;  it 's  hard  enough  as  it  is.  .  .  . 
But  at  least  there  will  be,  as  you  say,  no  mis- 
understanding, while  the  openness  of  my  con- 
fession will  soften,  I  hope,  the  feeling  of  offence 
which  you  cannot  but  feel.' 

Litvinov  spoke  without  raising  his  eyes,  but 
even  if  he  had  glanced  at  Irina,  he  could  not 
have  seen  what  was  passing  in  her  face,  as  she 
still  as  before  kept  her  hands  over  her  eyes. 
But  what  was  passing  over  her  face  meanwhile 
would  probably  have  astounded  him ;  both 
alarm  and  delight  were  apparent  on  it,  and  a 
kind  of  blissful  helplessness  and  agitation  ;  her 
eyes  hardly  glimmered  under  their  overhanging 
lids,  and  her  slow,  broken  breathing  was  chill 
upon  her  lips,  that  were  parted  as  though  with 
thirst  .  .  . 

191 


SMOKE 

Litvinov  was  silent,  waiting  for  a  response, 
some  sound.  .  .  .  Nothing ! 

'There  is  one  thing  left  for  me/  he  began 
again,  '  to  go  away  ;  I  have  come  to  say  good- 
bye to  you.' 

Irina  slowly  dropped  her  hands  on  to  her 
knees. 

*  But  I  remember,  Grigory  Mihalitch,'  she 
began  ;  '  that  .  .  .  that  person  of  whom  you 
spoke  to  me,  she  was  to  have  come  here  ?  You 
are  expecting  her  ? ' 

'  Yes  ;  but  I  shall  write  to  her  .  .  .  she  will 
stop  somewhere  on  the  way  ...  at  Heidelberg, 
for  instance.' 

*  Ah  !  Heidelberg.  .  .  .  Yes.  ...  It  's  nice 
there.  .  .  .  But  all  this  must  upset  your  plans. 
Are  you  perfectly  certain,  Grigory  Mihalitch, 
that  you  are  not  exaggerating,  et  que  ce  nest 
pas  une  fausse  alarme  ? ' 

Irina  spoke  softly,  almost  coldly,  with  short 
pauses,  looking  away  towards  the  window. 
Litvinov  made  no  answer  to  her  last  question. 

*  Only,  why  did  you  talk  of  offence  ?  '  she  went 
on.  *  I  am  not  offended  .  .  .  oh,  no  !  and  if  one 
or  other  of  us  is  to  blame,  in  any  case  it 's  not 
you  ;  not  you  alone.  .  .  .  Remember  our  last 
conversations,  and  you  will  be  convinced  that 
it 's  not  you  who  are  to  blame.' 

*  I   have   never  doubted  your  magnanimity/ 

192 


SMOKE 

Litvinov  muttered  between  his  teeth,  '  but  I 
should  like  to  know,  do  you  approve  of  my 
intention  ? ' 

*  To  go  away  ? ' 
'  Yes.' 

Irina  continued  to  look  away. 

*  At  the  first  moment,  your  intention  struck 
me  as  premature.  .  .  .  but  now  I  have  thought 
over  what  you  have  said  .  .  .  and  if  you  are 
really  not  mistaken,  then  I  suppose  that  you 
ought  to  go  away.  It  will  be  better  so  .  , 
better  for  us  both.' 

Irina's  voice  had  grown  lower  and  lower,  and 
her  words  too  came  more  and  more  slowly. 

*  General  Ratmirov,  certainly,  might  notice,' 
Litvinov  was  beginning.  .  .  . 

Irina's  eyes  dropped  again,  and  something 
strange  quivered  about  her  lips,  quivered  and 
died  away. 

*  No  ;  you  did  not  understand  me,'  she  inter- 
rupted him.  *  I  was  not  thinking  of  my  husband. 
Why  should  I  ?  And  there  is  nothing  to  notice. 
But  I  repeat,  separation  is  necessary  for  us 
both.' 

Litvinov  picked  up  his  hat,  which  had  fallen 
on  the  ground. 

*  Everything  is  over,'  he  thought,  *  I  must  go. 
And  so  it  only  remains  for  me  to  say  good-bye 
|to  you,   Irina    Pavlovna,'    he    said    aloud,   and 

193  N 


SMOKE 

suddenly  felt  a  pang,  as  though  he  were  pre- 
paring to  pronounce  his  own  sentence  on  him- 
self. '  It  only  remains  for  me  to  hope  that  you 
will  not  remember  evil  against  me,  and  .  .  .  and 
that  if  we  ever ' 

Irina  again  cut  him  short. 

*Wait  a  little,  Grigory  Mihalitch,  don't  say 
good-bye  to  me  yet.  That  would  be  too 
hurried.' 

Something  wavered  in  Litvinov,  but  the 
burning  pain  broke  out  again  and  with  re- 
doubled violence  in  his  heart. 

'  But  I  can't  stay,'  he  cried.  *  What  for  ? 
Why  prolong  this  torture  ? ' 

'  Don't  say  good-bye  to  me  yet,'  repeated 
Irina.  '  I  must  see  you  once  more.  .  .  .  An- 
other such  dumb  parting  as  in  Moscow  again — 
no,  I  don't  want  that.  You  can  go  now,  but 
you  must  promise  me,  give  me  your  word  of  j 
honour  that  you  won't  go  away  without  seeing 
me  once  more.'  ' 

'  You  wish  that  ? ' 

*  I  insist  on  it.  If  you  go  away  without  say- 
ing good-bye  to  mc,  I  shall  never  forgive  it,  do 
you  hear,  never !  Strange ! '  she  added  as 
though  to  herself,  *  I  cannot  persuade  myself 
that  I  am  in  Baden.  ...  I  keep  feeling  that  I 
am  in  Moscow.  .  .  .  Go  now.' 

Litvinov  got  up. 

194 


SMOKE 

*  Irina  Pavlovna,'  he  said, '  give  me  your  hand.* 
Irina  shook  her  head. 

*  I  told  you  that  I  don't  want  to  say  good- 
bye to  you.  .  .  . 

*  I  don't  ask  it  for  that* 

Irina  was  about  to  stretch  out  her  hand,  but 
she  glanced  at  Litvinov  for  the  first  time  since 
his  avowal,  and  drew  it  back. 

*  No,  no,'  she  whispered,  '  I  will  not  give  you 
my  hand.     No  .  .  .  no.     Go  now.' 

Litvinov  bowed  and  went  away.  He  could 
not  tell  why  Irina  had  refused  him  that  last 
friendly  handshake.  .  .  .  He  could  not  know 
what  she  feared. 

He  went  away,  and  Irina  again  sank  into  the 
armchair  and  again  covered  her  face. 


195 


XVII 

LiTVINOV  did  not  return  home  ;  he  went  up 
to  the  hills,  and  getting  into  a  thick  copse,  he 
flung  himself  face  downwards  on  the  earth,  and 
lay  there  about  an  hour.  He  did  not  suffer 
tortures,  did  not  weep  ;  he  sank  into  a  kind  of 
heavy,  oppressive  stupor.  Never  had  he  felt 
anything  like  it ;  it  was  an  insufferably  aching 
and  gnawing  sensation  of  emptiness,  emptiness 
in  himself,  his  surroundings,  everywhere.  .  .  . 
He  thought  neither  of  Irina  nor  of  Tatyana. 
He  felt  one  thing  only :  a  blow  had  fallen  and 
life  was  sundered  like  a  cord,  and  all  of  him 
was  being  drawn  along  in  the  clutches  of  some- 
thing chill  and  unfamiliar.  Sometimes  it  seemed 
to  him  that  a  whirlwind  had  swooped  down 
upon  him,  and  he  had  the  sensation  of  its  swift 
whirling  round  and  the  irregular  beating  of  its 
dark  wings.  But  his  resolution  did  not  waver. 
To  remain  in  Baden  .  .  .that  could  not  even 
be  considered.  In  thought  he  had  already  gone, 
he  was  already  sitting  in  the  rattling,  snorting 

196 


SMOKE 

train,  hurrying,  hurrying  into  the  dumb,  dead 
distance.  He  got  up  at  last,  and  leaning  his 
head  against  a  tree,  stayed  motionless  ;  only 
with  one  hand,  he  all  unconsciously  snatched 
and  swung  in  rhythm  the  topmost  frond  of  a 
fern.  The  sound  of  approaching  footsteps  drew 
him  out  of  his  stupor  :  two  charcoal-burners 
were  making  their  way  down  the  steep  path 
with  large  sacks  on  their  shoulders.  *It's 
time  ! '  whispered  Litvinov,  and  he  followed  the 
charcoal-burners  to  the  town,  turned  into  the 
railway  station,  and  sent  off  a  telegram  to 
Tatyana's  aunt,  Kapitolina  Markovna.  In  this 
telegram  he  informed  her  of  his  immediate 
departure,  and  appointed  as  a  meeting-place, 
Schrader's  hotel  in  Heidelberg. 

*  Make  an  end,  make  an  end  at  once,'  he 
thought ;  *  it 's  useless  putting  it  off  till  to- 
morrow.' Then  he  went  to  the  gambling 
saloon,  stared  with  dull  curiosity  at  the  faces 
of  two  or  three  gamblers,  got  a  back  view  of 
Bindasov's  ugly  head  in  the  distance,  noticed 
the  irreproachable  countenance  of  Pishtchalkin, 
and  after  waiting  a  little  under  the  colonnade, 
he  set  off  deliberately  to  Irina's.  He  was  not 
going  to  her  through  the  force  of  sudden,  in- 
voluntary temptation  ;  when  he  made  up  his 
mind  to  go  away,  he  also  made  up  his  mind 
to    keep    his   word    and    see    her   once   more. 

197 


SMOKE 

He  went  into  the  hotel  unobserved  by  the 
porter,  ascended  the  staircase,  not  meeting  any 
one,  and  without  knocking  at  the  door,  he 
mechanically  pushed  it  open  and  went  into 
the  room. 

In  the  room,  in  the  same  armchair,  in  the 
same  dress,  in  precisely  the  same  attitude  as 
three  hours  before,  was  sitting  Irina.  ...  It 
was  obvious  that  she  had  not  moved  from  the 
place,  had  not  stirred  all  that  time.  She  slowly 
raised  her  head,  and  seeing  Litvinov,  she 
trembled  all  over  and  clutched  the  arm  of  the 
chair.     '  You  frightened  me,'  she  whispered. 

Litvinov  looked  at  her  with  speechless  be- 
wilderment. The  expression  of  her  face,  her 
lustreless  eyes,  astounded  him. 

Irina  gave  a  forced  smile  and  smoothed  her 
ruffled  hair.  '  Never  mind.  ...  I  really  don't 
know.  ...  I  think  I  must  have  fallen  asleep 
here.' 

*  I  beg  your  pardon,  Irina  Pavlovna,'  began 
Litvinov.  '  I  came  in  unannounced.  ...  I 
wanted  to  do  what  you  thought  fit  to  require  of 
me.     So  as  I  am  going  away  to-day ' 

*  To-day  ?  But  I  thought  you  told  me  that 
you  meant  first  to  write  a  letter * 

*  I  have  sent  a  telegram.' 

'  Ah  !  you  found  it  necessary  to  make  haste. 
And  when  are  you  going  ?    What  time,  I  mean?* 

198 


SMOKE 

'  At  seven  o'clock  this  evening/ 

*  Ah  !  at  seven  o'clock  !  And  you  have  come 
to  say  good-bye  ? ' 

'  Yes,  Irina  Pavlovna,  to  say  good-bye.' 
Irina  was  silent  for  a  little. 

*  I  ought  to  thank  you,  Grigory  Mihalitch,  it 
was  probably  not  easy  for  you  to  come  here.' 

'  No,  Irina  Pavlovna,  it  was  anything  but 
easy.' 

*  Life  is  not  generally  easy,  Grigory  Mihalitch ; 
what  do  you  think  about  it  ? ' 

*  It  depends,  Irina  Pavlovna.' 

Irina  was  silent  again  for  a  little  ;  she  seemed 
sunk  in  thought. 

'  You  have  proved  your  affection  for  me  by 
coming,'  she  said  at  last,  *  I  thank  you.  And  I 
fully  approve  of  your  decision  to  put  an  end  to 
everything  as  soon  as  possible  .  .  .  because  any 
delay  .  .  .  because  .  .  .  because  I,  even  I  whom 
you  have  reproached  as  a  flirt,  called  an  actress 
.  .  .  that,  I  think,  was  what  you  called  me  ?  .  .  .' 

Irina  got  up  swiftly,  and,  sitting  down  in 
another  chair,  stooped  down  and  pressed  her 
face  and  arms  on  the  edge  of  the  table. 

*  Because  I  love  you  .  .  .'  she  whispered  be- 
tween her  clasped  fingers. 

Litvinov  staggered,  as  though  some  one  had 
dealt  him  a  blow  in  the  chest.  Irina  turned  her 
head  dejectedly  away  from  him,  as  though  she 

199 


SMOKE 

in  her  turn  wanted  to  hide  her  face  from  him, 
and  laid  it  down  on  the  table. 

*  Yes,  1  love  you  ...  I  love  you  .  .  .  and  you 
know  it.' 

*  I  ?     I  know  it  ? '  Litvinov  said  at  last  ;  '  I  ? ' 

*  Well,  now  you  see,'  Irina  went  on,  '  that  you 
certainly  must  go,  that  delay 's  impossible  .  .  . 
both  for  you,  and  for  me  delay's  impossible. 
It 's  dangerous,  it 's  terrible  .  .  .  good-bye ! ' 
she  added,  rising  impulsively  from  her  chair, 
'  good-bye ! ' 

She  took  a  few  steps  in  the  direction  of  the 
door  of  her  boudoir,  and  putting  her  hand  be- 
hind her  back,  made  a  hurried  movement  in  the 
air,  as  though  she  would  find  and  press  the  hand 
of  Litvinov  ;  but  he  stood  like  a  block  of  wood, 
at  a  distance  .  .  .  Once  more  she  said,  *  Good- 
bye, forget  me,'  and  without  looking  round  she 
rushed  away. 

Litvinov  remained  alone,  and  yet  still  could 
not  come  to  himself  He  recovered  himself  at 
lastj  went  quickly  to  the  boudoir  door,  uttered 
Irina's  name  once,  twice,  three  times  .  .  .  He 
had  already  his  hand  on  the  lock  .  .  .  From 
the  hotel  stairs  rose  the  sound  of  Ratmirov's 
sonorous  voice. 

Litvinov  pulled  down  his  hat  over  his  eyes, 
and  went  out  on  to  the  staircase.  The  elegant 
general  was  standing  before  the  Swiss  porter's 

200 


SMOKE 

box  and  explaining  to  him  in  bad  German  that 
he  wanted  a  hired  carriage  for  the  whole  of  the 
next  day.  On  catching  sight  of  Litvinov,  he 
again  lifted  his  hat  unnaturally  high,  and  again 
wished  him  '  a  very  good-day' ;  he  was  obviously 
jeering  at  him,  but  Litvinov  had  no  thoughts  for 
that.  He  hardly  responded  to  Ratmirov's  bow, 
and,  making  his  way  to  his  lodging,  he  stood 
still  before  his  already  packed  and  closed  trunk. 
His  head  was  turning  round  and  his  heart 
vibrating  like  a  harp-string.  What  was  to  be 
done  now  ?  And  could  he  have  foreseen  this  ? 
Yes,  he  had  foreseen  it,  however  unlikely  it 
seemed.  It  had  stunned  him  like  a  clap  of 
thunder,  yet  he  had  foreseen  it,  though  he  had 
not  courage  even  to  acknowledge  it.  Besides  he 
knew  nothing  now  for  certain.  Everything  was 
confusion  and  turmoil  within  him  ;  he  had  lost 
the  thread  of  his  own  thoughts.  He  remem- 
bered Moscow,  he  remembered  how  then  too 
'  it '  had  come  upon  him  like  a  sudden 
tempest.  He  was  breathless  ;  rapture,  but  a 
rapture  comfortless  and  hopeless,  oppressed  and 
tore  his  heart.  For  nothing  in  the  world  would 
he  have  consented  that  the  words  uttered  by 
Irina  should  not  have  actually  been  uttered  by 
her.  .  .  .  But  then  ?  those  words  could  not  for 
all  that  change  the  resolution  he  had  taken. 
As  before,  it  did  not  waver  ;  it  stood  firm  like 

20 1 


SMOKE 

an  anchor.  Litvinov  had  lost  the  thread  of  his 
own  thoughts  .  .  .  yes  ;  but  his  will  still  re- 
mained to  him,  and  he  disposed  of  himself  as  of 
another  man  dependent  on  him.  He  rang  for 
the  waiter,  asked  him  for  the  bill,  bespoke  a 
place  in  the  evening  omnibus  ;  designedly  he 
cut  himself  off  all  paths  of  retreat.  *  If  I  die  for 
it  after  ! '  he  declared,  as  he  had  in  the  previous 
sleepless  night ;  that  phrase  seemed  especially 
to  his  taste.  '  Then  even  if  I  die  for  it  ! '  he  re- 
peated, walking  slowly  up  and  down  the  room, 
and  only  at  rare  intervals,  unconsciously,  he 
shut  his  eyes  and  held  his  breath,  while  those 
words,  those  words  of  Irina's  forced  their  way 
into  his  soul,  and  set  it  aflame.  *  It  seems  you 
won't  love  twice,'  he  thought  ;  '  another  life 
came  to  you, you  let  it  come  into  yours — never  to 
be  rid  of  that  poison  to  the  end,  you  will  never 
break  those  bonds !  Yes  ;  but  what  does  that 
prove  ?  Happiness  ?  ...  Is  it  possible  ?  You 
love  her,  granted  .  .  .  and  she  .  .  .  she  loves 
you  .  .  .' 

But  at  this  point  again  he  had  to  pull  himself 
up.  As  a  traveller  on  a  dark  night,  seeing  before 
him  a  light,  and  afraid  of  losing  the  path,  never 
for  an  instant  takes  his  eyes  off  it,  so  Litvinov 
continually  bent  all  the  force  of  his  attention  on 
a  single  point,  a  single  aim.  To  reach  his  be- 
trothed, and  not  precisely  even  his  betrothed  (he 

202 


SMOKE 

was  trying  not  to  think  of  her)  but  to  reach 
a  room  in  the  Heidelberg  hotel,  that  was  what 
stood  innmovably  before  him,  a  guiding  light. 
What  would  be  later,  he  did  not  know,  nor  did 
he  want  to  know  .  .  .  One  thing  was  beyond 
doubt,  he  would  not  come  back.  '  If  I  die 
first ! '  he  repeated  for  the  tenth  time,  and  he 
glanced  at  his  watch. 

A  quarter-past  six  !  How  long  still  to  wait ! 
He  paced  once  more  up  and  down.  The  sun 
was  nearly  setting,  the  sky  was  crimson  above 
the  trees,  and  the  pink  flush  of  twilight  lay  on 
the  narrow  windows  of  his  darkening  room. 
Suddenly  Litvinov  fancied  the  door  had  been 
opened  quickly  and  softly  behind  him  and  as 
quickly  closed  again  .  .  .  He  turned  round  ;  at 
the  door,  muffled  in  a  dark  cloak,  was  standing 
a  woman  .  .  . 

'  Irina, '  he  cried,  and  clapped  his  hands  to- 
gether in  amazement  .  .  .  She  raised  her  head 
and  fell  upon  his  breast. 

Two  hours  later  he  was  sitting  in  his  room  on 
the  sofa.  His  box  stood  in  the  corner,  open 
and  empty,  and  on  the  table  in  the  midst  of 
things  flung  about  in  disorder,  lay  a  letter  from 
Tatyana,  just  received  by  him.  She  wrote  to 
him  that  she  had  decided  to  hasten  her  departure 
from  Dresden,  since  her  aunt's  health  was  com- 
pletely restored,  and  that  if  nothing  happened 

203 


SMOKE 

to  delay  them,  they  would  both  be  in  Baden  the 
following  day  at  twelve  o'clock,  and  hoped  that 
he  would  come  to  meet  them  at  the  station. 
Apartments  had  already  been  taken  for  them 
by  Litvinov  in  the  same  hotel  in  which  he  was 
staying. 

The  same  evening  he  sent  a  note  to  Irina,  and 
the  following  morning  he  received  a  reply  from 
her.  '  Sooner  or  later,'  she  wrote,  *  it  must  have 
been.  I  tell  you  again  what  I  said  yesterday : 
my  life  is  in  your  hands,  do  with  me  what  you 
will.  I  do  not  want  to  hamper  your  freedom, 
but  let  me  say,  that  if  necessary,  I  will  throw 
up  everything,  and  follow  you  to  the  ends  of 
the  earth.  We  shall  see  each  other  to-morrow, 
of  course. — Your  Irina.* 

The  last  two  words  were  written  in  a  large, 
bold,  resolute  hand 


204 


XVIII 

Among  the  persons  assembled  on  the  1 8th  of 
August  at  twelve  o'clock  on  the  platform  at 
the  railway  station  was  Litvinov.  Not  long 
before,  he  had  seen  Irina :  she  was  sitting  in  an 
open  carriage  with  her  husband  and  another 
gentleman,  somewhat  elderly.  She  caught 
sight  of  Litvinov,  and  he  perceived  that  some 
obscure  emotion  flitted  over  her  eyes ;  but  at 
once  she  hid  herself  from  him  with  her  parasol. 
A  strange  transformation  had  taken  place  in 
him  since  the  previous  day  —  in  his  whole 
appearance,  his  movements,  the  expression  of 
his  face  ;  and  indeed  he  felt  himself  a  different 
man.  His  self-confidence  had  vanished,  and 
his  peace  of  mind  had  vanished  too,  and  his 
respect  for  himself;  of  his  former  spiritual  con- 
dition nothing  was  left.  Recent  ineffaceable 
impressions  obscured  all  the  rest  from  him. 
Some  sensation  unknown  before  had  come, 
strong,  sweet — and  evil  ;  the  mysterious  guest 
had  made  its  way  to  the  innermost  shrine  and 

205 


SMOKE 

taken  possession  and  lain  down  in  it,  in  silence, 
but  in  all  its  magnitude,  like  the  owner  in  a 
new  house.  Litvinov  was  no  longer  ashamed, 
he  was  afraid  ;  at  the  same  time  a  desperate 
hardihood  had  sprung  up  in  him  ;  the  captured, 
the  vanquished  know  well  this  mixture  of  oppos- 
ing feelings  ;  the  thief  too  knows  something  of 
it  after  his  first  robbery.  Litvinov  had  been 
vanquished,  vanquished  suddenly  . .  .  and  what 
had  become  of  his  honesty  ? 

The  train  was  a  few  minutes  late.  Litvinov's 
suspense  passed  into  agonising  torture ;  he  could 
not  stop  still  in  one  place,  and,  pale  all  over, 
moved  about  jostling  in  the  crowd.  '  My  God,' 
he  thought,  '  if  I  only  had  another  twenty-four 
hours  '  .  .  .  The  first  look  at  Tanya,  the  first  look 
of  Tanya  .  .  .  that  was  what  filled  him  with 
terror  .  .  .  that  was  what  he  had  to  live  through 
directly  .  .  .  And  afterwards  ?  Afterwards  .  .  . 
come,  what  may  come !  .  .  He  now  made  no 
more  resolutions,  he  could  not  answer  for  him- 
self now.  His  phrase  of  yesterday  flashed  pain- 
fully through  his  head  ,  ,  .  And  this  was  how 
he  was  meeting  Tanya.  •  ,  . 

A  prolonged  whistle  sounded  at  last,  a  heavy 
momentarily  increasing  rumble  was  heard,  and, 
slowly  rolling  round  a  bend  in  the  line,  the 
train  came  into  sight.  The  crowd  hurried  to 
meet  it,  and  Litvinov  followed  it,  dragging  his 

206 


SMOKE 

feet  like  a  condemned  man.  Faces,  ladies'  hats 
began  to  appear  out  of  the  carriages,  at  one 
window  a  white  handkerchief  gleamed.  .  .  . 
Kapitolina  Markovna  was  waving  to  him.  .  .  . 
It  was  over  ;  she  had  caught  sight  of  Litvinov 
and  he  recognised  her.  The  train  stood  still ; 
Litvinov  rushed  to  the  carriage  door,  and 
opened  it ;  Tatyana  was  standing  near  her  aunt, 
smiling  brightly  and  holding  out  her  hand. 

He  helped  them  both  to  get  out,  uttered  a 
few  words  of  welcome,  unfinished  and  confused, 
and  at  once  bustled  about,  began  taking  their 
tickets,  their  travelling  bags,  and  rugs,  ran  to 
find  a  porter,  called  a  fly ;  other  people  were 
bustling  around  them.  He  was  glad  of  their 
presence,  their  fuss,  and  loud  talk.  Tatyana 
moved  a  little  aside,  and,  still  smiling,  waited 
calmly  for  his  hurried  arrangements  to  be  con- 
cluded. Kapitolina  Markovna,  on  the  other 
hand,  could  not  keep  still ;  she  could  not  be- 
lieve that  she  was  at  last  at  Baden. 

She  suddenly  cried,  '  But  the  parasols  ? 
Tanya,  where  are  our  parasols  ? '  all  unconscious 
that  she  was  holding  them  fast  under  her  arm  ; 
then  she  began  taking  a  loud  and  prolonged 
farewell  of  another  lady  with  whom  she  had 
made  friends  on  the  journey  from  Heidelberg 
to  Baden.  This  lady  was  no  other  than  our 
old   friend   Madame    Suhantchikov.     She   had 

207 


SMOKE 

^one  away  to  Heidelberg  to  do  obeisance  to 
Gubaryov,  and  was  returning  with  '  instructions.' 
Kapitolina  Markovna  wore  a  rather  peculiar 
striped  mantle  and  a  round  travelling  hat  of  a 
mushroom-shape,  from  under  which  her  short 
white  hair  fell  in  disorder ;  short  and  thin,  she 
was  flushed  with  travelling  and  kept  talking 
Russian  in  a  shrill  and  penetrating  voice.  .  .  . 
She  was  an  object  of  attention  at  once. 

Litvinov  at  last  put  her  and  Tatyana  into  a 
fly,  and  placed  himself  opposite  them.  The 
horses  started.  Then  followed  questionings, 
renewed  handshaking,  interchanging  of  smiles 
and  welcomes.  .  .  Litvinov  breathed  freely  ; 
the  first  moment  had  passed  off  satisfactorily. 
Nothing  in  him,  apparently,  had  struck  or 
bewildered  Tanya ;  she  was  smiling  just  as 
brightly  and  confidently,  she  was  blushing  as 
charmingly,  and  laughing  as  goodnaturedly. 
He  brought  himself  at  last  to  take  a  look  at  her ; 
not  a  stealthy  cursory  glance,  but  a  direct  steady 
look  at  her,  hitherto  his  own  eyes  had  refused  to 
obey  him.  His  heart  throbbed  with  involuntary 
emotion  :  the  serene  expression  of  that  honest, 
candid  face  gave  him  a  pang  of  bitter  reproach. 
*  So  you  are  here,  poor  girl,'  he  thought,  '  you 
whom  I  have  so  longed  for,  so  urged  to  come, 
with  whom  I  had  hoped  to  spend  my  life  to  the 
end,  you  have  come,  you  believed  in  me  .  .  , 

208 


SMOKE 

while  I  .  .  .  while  I.*  .  .  .  Litvinov's  head  sank  ; 
but  Kapitolina  Markovna  gave  him  no  time  for 
musing  ;  she  was  pelting  him  with  questions. 

*  What  is  that  building  with  columns  ?  Where 
is  it  the  gambling's  done?  Who  is  that 
coming  along  ?  Tanya,  Tanya,  look,  what  crino- 
lines !  And  who  can  that  be  ?  I  suppose  they 
are  mostly  French  creatures  from  Paris  here  ? 
Mercy,  what  a  hat !  Can  you  get  everything 
here  just  as  in  Paris?  But,  I  expect,  every- 
thing 's  awfully  dear,  eh  ?  Ah,  I  've  made  the 
acquaintance  of  such  a  splendid,  intellectual 
woman  !  You  know  her,  Grigory  Mihalitch ; 
she  told  me  she  had  met  you  at  some 
Russian 's,  who 's  a  wonderfully  intellectual  per- 
son too.  She  promised  to  come  and  see  us. 
How  she  does  abuse  all  these  aristocrats — it 's 
simply  superb !  What  is  that  gentleman  with 
grey  moustaches  ?  The  Prussian  king  ?  Tanya, 
Tanya,  look,  that 's  the  Prussian  king.  No  ? 
not  the  Prussian  king,  the  Dutch  ambassa- 
dor, did  you  say?  I  can't  hear,  the  wheels 
rattle  so.     Ah,  what  exquisite  trees  ! ' 

*  Yes,  exquisite,  aunt,*  Tanya  assented,  *  and 
how  green  everything  is  here,  how  bright  and 
gay  !     Isn't  it,  Grigory  Mihalitch  ?  ' 

*  Oh,  very  bright  and  gay '  .  ,  ,  he  answered 
through  his  teeth. 

The  carriage  stopped  at  last  before  the  hotel. 

209  o 


SMOKE 

Litvinov  conducted  the  two  travellers  to  the 
room  taken  for  them,  promised  to  come  back 
within  an  hour,  and  went  to  his  own  room. 
Directly  he  entered  it,  he  fell  again  under  the 
spell  which  had  been  lulled  for  a  while.  Here, 
in  that  room,  since  the  day  before,  Irina  reigned 
supreme ;  everything  was  eloquent  of  her,  the 
very  air  seemed  to  have  kept  secret  traces  of 
her  visit.  .  .  .  Again  Litvinov  felt  himself  her 
slave.  He  drew  out  her  handkerchief,  hidden 
in  his  bosom,  pressed  it  to  his  lips,  and  burning 
memories  flowed  in  subtle  poison  through  his 
veins.  He  realised  that  there  was  no  turning 
back,  no  choosing  now  ;  the  sorrowful  emotion 
aroused  in  him  by  Tatyana  melted  away  like 
snow  in  the  fire,  and  remorse  died  down  .  .  . 
died  down  so  completely  that  his  uneasiness 
even  was  soothed,  and  the  possibility — present 
to  his  intellect — of  hypocrisy  no  longer  revolted 
him.  .  .  .  Love,  Irina's  love,  that  was  now  his 
truth,  his  bond,  his  conscience.  .  .  .  The  sen- 
sible Litvinov  did  not  even  ponder  how  to  get 
out  of  a  position,  the  horror  and  hideousness  of 
which  he  bore  lightly,  as  if  it  did  not  concern 
him. 

The  hour  had  not  yet  passed  when  a  waiter 
came  to  Litvinov  from  the  newly  arrived  ladies  ; 
they  begged  him  to  come  to  them  in  the  public 
drawing-room.      He   followed    the    messenger, 

2IO 


SMOKE 

and  found  them  already  dressed  and  in  their 
hats.  They  both  expressed  a  desire  to  go  out 
at  once  to  see  Baden,  as  the  weather  was  so  fine. 
Kapitolina  Markovna  especially  seemed  burning 
with  impatience  ;  she  was  quite  cast  down  when 
she  heard  that  the  hour  of  the  fashionable  pro- 
menade before  the  Konversation  Hall  had  not 
yet  arrived.  Litvinov  gave  her  his  arm,  and  the 
ceremony  of  sight-seeing  began.  Tatyana  walked 
beside  her  aunt,  looking  about  her  with  quiet 
interest ;  Kapitolina  Markovna  pursued  her  in- 
quiries. The  sight  of  the  roulette,  the  dignified 
croupiers,  whom — had  she  met  them  in  any 
other  place — she  would  certainly  have  taken  for 
ministers,  the  quickly  moving  scoops,  the  heaps 
of  gold  and  silver  on  the  green  cloth,  the  old 
women  gambling,  and  the  painted  cocottes 
reduced  Kapitolina  Markovna  to  a  sort  of 
speechless  stupor ;  she  altogether  forgot  that 
she  ought  to  feel  moral  indignation,  and  could 
only  gaze  and  gaze,  giving  a  start  of  surprise  at 
every  new  sight.  .  .  .  The  whiz  of  the  ivory 
ball  into  the  bottom  of  the  roulette  thrilled  her 
to  the  marrow  of  her  bones,  and  it  was  only 
when  she  was  again  in  the  open  air  that,  draw- 
ing a  long  breath,  she  recovered  energy  enough 
to  denounce  games  of  chance  as  an  immoral 
invention  of  aristocracy.  A  fixed,  unpleasant 
smile  had  made  its  appearance  on  Litvinov's 

211 


SMOKE 

lips ;  he  had  spoken  abruptly  and  lazily,  as 
though  he  were  annoyed  or  bored.  .  .  .  But  now 
he  turned  round  towards  Tatyana,  and  was 
thrown  into  secret  confusion ;  she  was  looking 
attentively  at  him,  with  an  expression  as  though 
she  were  asking  herself  what  sort  of  an  impres- 
sion was  being  made  on  her.  He  made  haste 
to  nod  his  head  to  her,  she  responded  with  the 
same  gesture,  and  again  looked  at  him  ques- 
tioningly,  with  a  sort  of  strained  effort,  as  though 
he  were  standing  much  further  off  than  he 
really  was.  Litvinov  led  his  ladies  away  from 
the  Konversation  Hall,  and  passing  the  '  Rus- 
sian tree,'  under  which  two  Russian  ladies 
were  already  sitting,  he  went  towards  Lichten- 
thaler  Allee.  He  had  hardly  entered  the  avenue 
when  he  saw  Irina  in  the  distance. 

She  was  walking  towards  him  with  her  hus- 
band and  Potugin.  Litvinov  turned  white  as  a 
sheet ;  he  did  not  slacken  his  pace,  however, 
and  when  he  was  on  a  level  with  her,  he  made 
a  bow  without  speaking.  She  too  bowed  to 
him,  politely,  but  coldly,  and  taking  in  Tatyana 
in  a  rapid  glance,  she  glided  by.  .  .  .  Ratmirov 
lifted  his  hat  high,  Potugin  muttered  something. 

*Who  is  that  lady  ? '  Tatyana  asked  suddenly. 
Till  that  instant  she  had  hardly  opened  her  lips. 

*  That  lady  ? '  repeated  Litvinov,  *  that  lady  ? 
That  is  a  Madame  Ratmirov.' 

212 


SMOKE 

*  Is  she  Russian  ? ' 
'Yes.' 

*  Did  you  make  her  acquaintance  here  ?  * 
'  No ;  I  have  known  her  a  long  while.' 

*  How  beautiful  she  is  ! ' 

*  Did  you  notice  her  dress  ? '  put  in  Kapito- 
lina  Markovna.  *  Ten  families  might  live  for  a 
whole  year  on  the  cost  of  her  lace  alone.  Was 
that  her  husband  with  her?'  she  inquired 
turning  to  Litvinov. 

*  Yes.' 

*  He  must  be  awfully  rich,  I  suppose  ? ' 

'  Really  I  don't  know ;  I  don't  think  so.' 

*  What  is  his  rank  ? 

*  He 's  a  general.' 

*  What  eyes  she  has !  *  said  Tatyana,  *  and 
what  a  strange  expression  in  them :  pensive 
and  penetrating  at  the  same  time.  ...  I  have 
never  seen  such  eyes.' 

Litvinov  made  no  answer ;  he  fancied  that  he 
felt  again  Tatyana's  questioning  glance  bent  on 
his  face,  but  he  was  wrong,  she  was  looking  at 
her  own  feet,  at  the  sand  of  the  path. 

'  Mercy  on  us  !  Who  is  that  fright  ? '  cried 
Kapitolina  Markovna  suddenly,  pointing  to  a 
low  jaunting-car  in  which  a  red-haired  pug- 
nosed  woman  lay  lolling  impudently,  in  an 
extraordinarily  gorgeous  costume  and  lilac 
stockings, 

2J3 


SMOKE 

*  That  fright !  why,  that 's  the  celebrated 
Ma'mselle  Cora.' 

'Who?' 

'  Ma'mselle  Cora  ...  a  Parisian  .  ,  ,  noto- 
riety.' 

*  What?   That  pug?  Why,  but  she's  hideous  !* 

*  It  seems  that 's  no  hindrance.' 
Kapitolina    Markovna    could    only   lift   her 

hands  in  astonishment. 

'  Well,  this  Baden  of  yours  ! '  she  brought  out 
at  last.  *  Can  one  sit  down  on  a  seat  here  ? 
I  'm  rather  tired.' 

'  Of  course  you  can,  Kapitolina  Markovna. 
.  .  .  That 's  what  the  seats  are  put  here  for.' 

*  Well,  really,  there 's  no  knowing !  But  there 
in  Paris,  I  'm  told,  there  are  seats,  too,  along 
the  boulevards ;  but  it 's  not  proper  to  sit  on 
them.' 

Litvinov  made  no  reply  to  Kapitolina  Mar- 
kovna ;  only  at  that  moment  he  realised  that 
two  paces  away  was  the  very  spot  where  he  had 
had  that  explanation  with  Irina,  which  had 
decided  everything.  Then  he  recalled  that  he 
had  noticed  a  small  rosy  spot  on  her  cheek 
to-day.  .  .  . 

Kapitolina  Markovna  sank  down  on  to  the 
seat,  Tatyana  sat  down  beside  her.  Litvinov 
remained  on  the  path  ;  between  Tatyana  and 
him — or   was   it   only   his    fancy? — something 

214 


SMOKE 

seemed  to  have  happened  .  .  .  unconsciously 
and  gradually. 

*  Ah,  she's  a  wretch,  a  perfect  wretch!'  Kapito- 
lina  Markovna  declared,  shaking  her  head 
commiseratingly ;  '  why,  with  the  price  of  her 
get-up,  you  could  keep  not  ten,  but  a  hundred 
families.  Did  you  see  under  her  hat,  on  her 
red  hair,  there  were  diamonds?  Upon  my 
word,  diamonds  in  the  day-time  ! ' 

*  Her  hair 's  not  red,'  remarked  Litvinov ; 
*  she  dyes  it  red — that 's  the  fashion  now.' 

Again  Kapitolina  Markovna  could  only  lift 
her  hands  ;  she  was  positively  dumbfounded. 

'  Well,'  she  said  at  last,  '  where  we  were,  in 
Dresden,  things  had  not  got  to  such  a  scandalous 
pitch  yet.  It 's  a  little  further  from  Paris,  any- 
way, that's  why.  Don't  you  think  that's  it, 
Grigory  Mihalitch,  eh  ? ' 

'Don't  I  think  so?'  answered  Litvinov.  While 
he  thought  to  himself,  'What  on  earth  is  she 
talking  of? '     *  I  ?     Of  course  ...  of  course.  .  .  .' 

But  at  this  point  the  sound  of  slow  footsteps 
was  heard,  and  Potugin  approached  the  seat. 

'  Good-morning,  Grigory  Mihalitch,'  he  began, 
smiling  and  nodding. 

Litvinov  grasped  him  by  the  hand  at  once. 

'  Good  -  morning,  good  -  morning,  Sozont 
Ivanitch.  I  fancy  I  passed  you  just  now  with 
,  ,  .  just  now  in  the  avenue  ? ' 

215 


SMOKE 

*  Yes,  it  was  me.' 

Potugin  bowed  respectfully  to  the  ladies 
sitting  on  the  seat. 

*  Let  me  introduce  you,  Sozont  Ivanitch.  Old 
friends  and  relatives  of  mine,  who  have  only  just 
arrived  in  Baden.  Potugin,  Sozont  Ivanitch,  a 
countryman  of  ours,  also  staying  in  Baden.' 

Both  ladies  rose  a  little.  Potugin  renewed 
his  bows. 

*It  's  quite  a  lev^e  here,'  Kapitolina  Markovna 
began  in  a  delicate  voice  ;  the  kind-hearted  old 
lady  was  easily  intimidated,  but  she  tried  before 
all  to  keep  up  her  dignity.  '  Every  one  regards 
it  as  an  agreeable  duty  to  stay  here.' 

*  Baden  is  an  agreeable  place,  certainly,' 
answered  Potugin,  with  a  sidelong  look  at 
Tatyana ;  *  a  very  agreeable  place,  Baden.' 

*  Yes  ;  but  it 's  really  too  aristocratic,  so  far 
as  I  can  form  an  opinion.  You  see  we  have 
been  staying  all  this  time  in  Dresden  ...  a 
very  interesting  town  ;  but  here  there 's  posi- 
tively a  lev^e.' 

*  She 's  pleased  with  the  word,'  thought 
Potugin.  '  You  are  perfectly  right  in  that 
observation,'  he  said  aloud ;  '  but  then  the 
scenery  here  is  exquisite,  and  the  site  of 
the  place  is  something  one  cannot  often  find. 
Your  fellow-traveller  especially  is  sure  to 
appreciate   that.     Are   you    not,   madam  ? '   he 

216 


SMOKE 

added,  addressing  himself  this  time  directly  to 
Tatyana. 

Tatyana  raised  her  large,  clear  eyes  to 
Potugin.  It  seemed  as  though  she  were  per- 
plexed. What  was  wanted  of  her,  and  why 
had  Litvinov  introduced  her,  on  the  first  day 
of  her  arrival,  to  this  unknown  man,  who  had, 
though,  a  kind  and  clever  face,  and  was  looking 
at  her  with  cordial  and  friendly  eyes. 

*  Yes,'  she  said  at  last,  '  it 's  very  nice  here. 
'You  ought  to  visit  the  old  castle,'  Potugin 

went  on  ;  *  1  especially  advise  a  drive  to ' 

'  The    Saxon    Switzerland '    Kapitolina 

Markovna  was  beginning. 

The  blare  of  wind  instruments  floated  up 
the  avenue ;  it  was  the  Prussian  military  band 
from  Rastadt  (in  1862  Rastadt  was  still  an 
allied  fortress),  beginning  its  weekly  concert  in 
the  pavilion.    Kapitolina  Markovna  got  up. 

*  The  music  ! '  she  said  ;  '  the  music  a  la  Con- 
versation !  .  .  .  We  must  go  there.  It 's  four 
o'clock  now  ,  .  .  isn't  it  ?  Will  the  fashionable 
world  be  there  now  ? ' 

*  Yes,'  answered  Potugin :  *  this  is  the  most 
fashionable  time,  and  the  music  is  excellent.* 

*  Well,  then,  don't  let  us  linger.  Tanya,  come 
along* 

*  You  allow  me  to  accompany  you  ? '  asked 
Potugin,   to   Litvinov's    considerable   astonish- 

217 


SMOKE 

ment ;  it  was  not  possible  for  it  even  to  enter 
his  head  that  Irina  had  sent  Potugin. 

Kapitolina  Markovna  simpered. 

'  With  the  greatest  pleasure — M'sieu  ,  ,  , 
M'sieu ' 

*  Potugin/  he  murmured,  and  he  offered  her 
his  arm. 

Litvinov  gave  his  to  Tatyana,  and  both 
couples  walked  towards  the  Konversation  Hall. 

Potugin  went  on  talking  with  Kapitolina 
Markovna.  But  Litvinov  walked  without  utter- 
ing a  word  ;  yet  twice,  without  any  cause,  he 
smiled,  and  faintly  pressed  Tatyana's  arm 
against  his.  There  was  a  falsehood  in  those 
demonstrations,  to  which  she  made  no  response, 
and  Litvinov  was  conscious  of  the  lie.  They 
did  not  express  a  mutual  confidence  in  the  close 
union  of  two  souls  given  up  to  one  another ; 
they  were  a  temporary  substitute — for  words 
which  he  could  not  find.  That  unspoken  some- 
thing which  was  beginning  between  them  grew 
and  gained  strength.  Once  more  Tatyana 
looked  attentively,  almost  intently,  at  him. 

It  was  the  same  before  the  Konversation 
Hall  at  the  little  table  round  which  they  all 
four  seated  themselves,  with  this  sole  difference, 
that,  in  the  noisy  bustle  of  the  crowd,  the  clash 
and  roar  of  the  music,  Litvinov's  silence  seemed 
more  comprehensible,      Kapitolina    Markovna 

218 


SMOKE 

became  quite  excited ;  Potugin  hardly  had 
time  to  answer  her  questions,  to  satisfy  her 
curiosity.  Luckily  for  him,  there  suddenly 
appeared  in  the  mass  of  moving  figures  the 
lank  person  and  everlastingly  leaping  eyes  of 
Madame  Suhantchikov.  Kapitolina  Markovna 
at  once  recognised  her,  invited  her  to  their 
table,  made  her  sit  down,  and  a  hurricane  of 
words  arose. 

Potugin  turned  to  Tatyana,  and  began  a 
conversation  with  her  in  a  soft,  subdued  voice, 
his  face  bent  slightly  down  towards  her  with  a 
very  friendly  expression  ;  and  she,  to  her  own 
surprise,  answered  him  easily  and  freely ;  she 
was  glad  to  talk  with  this  stranger,  this  out- 
sider, while  Litvinov  sat  immovable  as  before, 
with  the  same  fixed  and  unpleasant  smile  on 
his  lips. 

Dinner-time  came  at  last.  The  music  ceased, 
the  crowd  thinned.  Kapitolina  Markovna 
parted  from  Madame  Suhantchikov  on  the 
warmest  terms.  She  had  conceived  an  immense 
respect  for  her,  though  she  did  say  afterwards  to 
her  niece,  that  *  this  person  is  really  too  severe ; 
but  then  she  does  know  everything  and  every- 
body ;  and  we  must  really  get  sewing-machines 
directly  the  wedding  festivities  are  over.' 
Potugin  took  leave  of  them ;  Litvinov  conducted 
his  ladies  home.     As  they  were  going  into  the 

219 


SMOKE 

hotel,  he  was  handed  a  note ;  he  moved  aside 
and  hurriedly  tore  open  the  envelope.  On  a 
tiny  scrap  of  vellum  paper  were  the  following 
words,  scribbled  in  pencil :  *  Come  to  me  this 
evening  at  seven,  for  one  minute,  I  entreat  you. 
— Irina.'  Litvinov  thrust  the  note  into  his 
pocket,  and,  turning  round,  put  on  his  smile 
again  .  .  .  to  whom?  why?  Tatyana  was  stand- 
ing with  her  back  to  him.  They  dined  at  the 
common  table  of  the  hotel.  Litvinov  was 
sitting  between  Kapitolina  Markovna  and 
Tatyana,  and  he  began  talking,  telling  anec- 
dotes and  pouring  out  wine  for  himself  and 
the  ladies,  with  a  strange,  sudden  joviality.  He 
conducted  himself  in  such  a  free  and  easy 
manner,  that  a  French  infantry  officer  from 
Strasbourg,  sitting  opposite,  with  a  beard  and 
moustaches  d  la  Napoleon  III.,  thought  it 
admissible  to  join  in  the  conversation,  and 
even  wound  up  by  a  toast  a  la  sant^  des  belles 
Moscovites !  After  dinner,  Litvinov  escorted 
the  two  ladies  to  their  room,  and  after  standing 
a  little  while  at  the  window  with  a  scowl  on  his 
face,  he  suddenly  announced  that  he  had  to  go 
out  for  a  short  time  on  business,  but  would  be 
back  without  fail  by  the  evening.  Tatyana  said 
nothing  ;  she  turned  pale  and  dropped  her  eyes. 
Kapitolina  Markovna  was  in  the  habit  of  taking 
a  nap  after  dinner ;  Tatyana  was  well  aware 

220 


SMOKE 

that  Litvinov  knew  of  this  habit  of  her  aunt's ; 
she  had  expected  him  to  take  advantage  of  it, 
to  remain  with  her,  for  he  had  not  been  alone 
with  her,  nor  spoken  frankly  to  her,  since  her 
arrival.  And  now  he  was  going  out !  What 
was  she  to  make  of  it  ?  And,  indeed,  his  whole 
behaviour  all  along.  .  .  . 

Litvinov  withdrew  hurriedly,  not  waiting  for 
remonstrances  ;  Kapitolina  Markovna  lay  down 
on  the  sofa,  and  with  one  or  two  sighs  and 
groans,  fell  into  a  serene  sleep  ;  while  Tatyana 
moved  away  into  a  corner,  and  sat  down  in  a 
low  chair,  folding  her  arms  tightly  across  her 
bosom. 


221 


XIX 

LiTViNOV  went  quickly  up  the  staircase  of  the 
Hotel  de  V Europe ;  a  little  girl  of  thirteen,  with  a 
sly  little  face  of  Kalmuck  cast,  who  had  appar- 
ently been  on  the  look-out  for  him,  stopped  him, 
saying  in  Russian :  *  Come  this  way,  please ; 
Irina  Pavlovna  will  be  here  directly.'  He  looked 
at  her  in  perplexity.  She  smiledj  repeated : 
*  Come  along,  come  along,'  and  led  him  to  a 
small  room,  facing  Irina's  bedroom,  and  filled 
with  travelling  trunks  and  portmanteaus,  then  at 
once  disappeared,  closing  the  door  very  softly. 
Litvinov  had  not  time  to  look  about  him,  before 
the  door  was  quickly  opened,  and  before  him  in 
a  pink  ball-dress,  with  pearls  in  her  hair  and 
on  her  neck,  stood  Irina.  She  simply  rushed  at 
him,  clutched  him  by  both  hands,  and  for  a  few 
instants  was  speechless  ;  her  eyes  were  shining, 
and  her  bosom  heaving  as  though  she  had  run 
up  to  a  height. 

*  I  could  not  receive  .  .  .  you  there,'  she  began 
in  a  hurried  whisper  :  *  we  are  just  going  to  a 

222 


SMOKE 

dinner  party,  but  I  wanted  above  everything  to 
see  you.  .  .  .  That  is  your  betrothed,  I  sup- 
pose, with  whom  I  met  you  to-day  ?  * 

*  Yes,  that  was  my  betrothed,'  said  Litvinov, 
with  emphasis  on  the  word  *  was.* 

'  And  so  I  wanted  to  see  you  for  one 
minute,  to  tell  you  that  you  must  consider 
yourself  absolutely  free,  that  everything  that 
happened  yesterday  ought  not  to  affect  your 
plans.  .  .  .' 

'  Irina  ! '  cried  Litvinov,  '  why  are  you  saying 
this  ? '  He  uttered  these  words  in  a  loud  voice. 
There  was  the  note  in  them  of  unbounded 
passion.  Irina  involuntarily  closed  her  eyes  for 
a  minute. 

*  Oh,  my  sweet  one !  *  she  went  on  in  a 
whisper  still  more  subdued,  but  with  unre- 
strained emotion,  *  you  don't  know  how  I  love 
you,  but  yesterday  I  only  paid  my  debt,  I  made 
up  for  the  past.  .  .  .  Ah !  I  could  not  give  you 
back  my  youth,  as  I  would,  but  I  have  laid  no 
obligations  on  you,  I  have  exacted  no  promise 
of  any  sort  of  you,  my  sweet !  Do  what  you 
will,  you  are  free  as  air,  you  are  bound  in  no 
way,  understand  that,  understand  that !  * 

'  But  I  can't  live  without  you,  Irina,'  Litvinov 
interrupted,  in  a  whisper  now  ;  *  I  am  yours  for 
ever  and  always,  since  yesterday.  ,  ,  ,  I  can  only 
breathe  at  your  feet.  .  .  .' 

223 


SMOKE 

He  stooped  down  all  in  a  tremble  to  kiss  her 
hands.     Irina  gazed  at  his  bent  head. 

*Then  let  me  say,' she  said,  *  that  I  too  am 
ready  for  anything,  that  I  too  will  consider  no 
one,  and  nothing.  As  you  decide,  so  it  shall 
be.     I,  too,  am  for  ever  yours  .  .  .  yours.' 

Some  one  tapped  warily  at  the  door.  Irina 
stooped,  whispered  once  more,  '  Yours  .  .  . 
good-bye ! '  Litvinov  felt  her  breath  on  his 
hair,  the  touch  of  her  lips.  When  he  stood 
up,  she  was  no  longer  in  the  room,  but  her 
dress  was  rustling  in  the  corridor,  and  from  the 
distance  came  the  voice  of  Ratmirov:  'Eh 
bien  ?     Vous  ne  venez  pas  f ' 

Litvinov  sat  down  on  a  high  chest,  and  hid 
his  face.  A  feminine  fragrance,  fresh  and  deli- 
cate, clung  about  him.  .  .  .  Irina  had  held  his 
hand  in  her  hands.  '  It 's  too  much,  too  much,* 
was  his  thought.  The  little  girl  came  into  the 
room,  and  smiling  again  in  response  to  his 
agitated  glance,  said : 

*  Kindly  come,  now ' 

He  got  up,  and  went  out  of  the  hotel.  It 
was  no  good  even  to  think  of  returning  home: 
he  had  to  regain  his  balance  first.  His  heart 
was  beating  heavily  and  unevenly ;  the  earth 
seemed  faintly  reeling  under  his  feet.  Litvinov 
turned  again  along  the  Lichtenthaler  Allee.  He 
realised  that  the  decisive  moment  had  come, 

224 


SMOKE 

that  to  put  it  off  longer,  to  dissemble,  to  turn 
away,  had  become  impossible,  that  an  explana- 
tion with  Tatyana  had  become  inevitable ;  he 
could  imagine  how  she  was  sitting  there,  never 
stirring,  waiting  for  him  ...  he  could  foresee 
what  he  would  say  to  her ;  but  how  was  he  to  act, 
how  was  he  to  begin  ?  He  had  turned  his  back 
on  his  upright,  well-organised,  orderly  future  ; 
he  knew  that  he  was  flinging  himself  headlong 
into  a  gulf  .  .  .  but  that  did  not  confound  him. 
The  thing  was  done,  but  how  was  he  to  face 
his  judge  ?  And  if  only  his  judge  would  come 
to  meet  him — an  angel  with  a  flaming  sword  ; 
that  would  be  easier  for  a  sinning  heart  .  .  . 
instead  of  which  he  had  himself  to  plunge  the 
knife  in.  .  .  .  Infamous !  But  to  turn  back,  to 
abandon  that  other,  to  take  advantage  of  the 
freedom  offered  him,  recognised  as  his.  .  .  . 
No  !  better  to  die  !  No,  he  would  have  none  of 
such  loathsome  freedom  .  .  .  but  would  humble 
himself  in  the  dust,  and  might  those  eyes  look 
down  on  him  with  love.  .  .  . 

*  Grigory  Mihalitch,'  said  a  melancholy  voice, 
and  some  one's  hand  was  laid  heavily  upon 
Litvinov. 

He  looked  round  in  some  alarm  and  recog- 
nised Potugin. 

*  I  beg  your  pardon,  Grigory  Mihalitch,'  began 
the  latter  with  his  customary  humility,  '  I  am 

225  p 


SMOKE 

disturbing  you  perhaps,  but,  seeing  you  in  the 
distance,  I  thought  .  .  .  However  if  you  're  not 
in  the  humour.  .  .  .' 

*  On  the  contrary  I  'm  delighted,'  Litvinov 
muttered  between  his  teeth. 

Potugin  walked  beside  him. 
'  What   a   lovely   evening ! '    he    began,   *  so 
warm  !     Have  you  been  walking  long  ?  * 

*  No,  not  long.' 

*  Why  do  I  ask  though  ;  T  ve  just  seen  you 
come  out  of  the  Hotel  de  P Europe! 

'  Then  you  've  been  following  me  ? ' 
*Yes.' 

*  You  have  something  to  say  to  me  ? ' 

*  Yes,'  Potugin  repeated,  hardly  audibly. 
Litvinov  stopped  and  looked  at  his  uninvited 

companion.  His  face  was  pale,  his  eyes  moved 
restlessly ;  his  contorted  features  seemed  over- 
shadowed by  old,  long-standing  grief. 

*  What  do  you  specially  want  to  say  to  me?* 
Litvinov  said  slowly,  and  he  moved  forward. 

'  Ah,  with  your  permission  .  .  .  directly.  If 
it 's  all  the  same  to  you,  let  us  sit  down  here 
on  this  seat.     It  will  be  most  convenient.' 

*  Why,  this  is  something  mysterious,'  Litvinov 
declared,  seating  himself  near  him.  '  You  don't 
seem  quite  yourself,  Sozont  Ivanitch.' 

'  No ;  I  'm  all  right ;  and  it 's  nothing 
mysterious  either.     I   specially  wanted  to  tell 

226 


SMOKE 

you  .  .  .  the  impression  made  on  me  by  your 
betrothed  .  .  .  she  is  betrothed  to  you,  I  think  ? 
.  .  .  well,  anyway,  by  the  girl  to  whom  you  in- 
troduced me  to-day.  I  must  say  that  in  the 
course  of  my  whole  existence  I  have  never  met 
a  more  attractive  creature.  A  heart  of  gold,  a 
really  angelic  nature.' 

Potugin  uttered  all  these  words  with  the  same 
bitter  and  mournful  air,  so  that  even  Litvinov 
could  not  help  noticing  the  incongruity  between 
his  expression  of  face  and  his  speech. 

*  You  have  formed  a  perfectly  correct  estimate 
of  Tatyana  Petrovna/  Litvinov  began,  '  though 
I  can't  help  being  surprised,  first  that  you  should 
be  aware  of  the  relation  in  which  I  stand  to 
her  ;  and  secondly,  that  you  should  have  under- 
stood her  so  quickly.  She  really  has  an  angelic 
nature ;  but  allow  me  to  ask,  did  you  want  to 
talk  to  me  about  this  ?  ' 

'  It 's  impossible  not  to  understand  her  at 
once,'  Potugin  replied  quickly,  as  though  evad- 
ing the  last  question.  *  One  need  only  take  one 
look  into  her  eyes.  She  deserves  every  possible 
happiness  on  earth,  and  enviable  is  the  fate  of 
the  man  whose  lot  it  is  to  give  her  that  hap- 
piness !  One  must  hope  he  may  prove  worthy 
of  such  a  fate.' 

Litvinov  frowned  slightly. 

*  Excuse   me,   Sozont   Ivanitch,'   he   said,  *  I 

227 


SMOKB 

must  confess  our  conversation  strikes  me  as 
altogether  rather  original.  ...  I  should  like  to 
know,  does  the  hint  contained  in  your  words 
refer  to  me  ? ' 

Potugin  did  not  at  once  answer  Litvinov  ;  he 
was  visibly  struggling  with  himself. 

'  Grigory  Mihalitch/  he  began  at  last, '  either 
I  am  completely  mistaken  in  you,  or  you  are 
capable  of  hearing  the  truth,  from  whomsoever 
it  may  come,  and  in  however  unattractive  a 
form  it  may  present  itself  I  told  you  just  now, 
that  I  saw  where  you  came  from.* 

'  Why,  from  the  HoU/  de  P Europe.  What  of 
that  ? ' 

'  I  know,  of  course,  whom  you  have  been  to 
see  there.' 

'What?' 

*  You  have  been  to  see  Madame  Ratmirov.* 

*  Well,  I  have  been  to  see  her.     What  next  ? ' 
'  What  next  ?  .  .  .  You,  betrothed  to  Tatyana 

Petrovna,  have  been  to  see  Madame  Ratmirov, 
whom  you  love  .  .  .  and  who  loves  you.' 

Litvinov  instantly  got  up  from  the  seat ;  the 
blood  rushed  to  his  head. 

*  What 's  this  ? '  he  cried  at  last,  in  a  voice 
of  concentrated  exasperation  :  *  stupid  jesting, 
spying  ?     Kindly  explain  yourself 

Potugin  turned  a  weary  look  upon  him. 

*  Ah  !  don't  be  offended  at  my  words.    Grigory 

228 


SMOKE 

Mihalitch,  me  you  cannot  offend.  I  did  not 
begin  to  talk  to  you  for  that,  and  I  'm  in  no 
joking  humour  now/ 

'  Perhaps,  perhaps.  I  'm  ready  to  believe  in 
the  excellence  of  your  intentions  ;  but  still  I 
may  be  allowed  to  ask  you  by  what  right  you 
meddle  in  the  private  affairs,  in  the  inner  life,  of 
another  man,  a  man  who  is  nothing  to  you  ; 
and  what  grounds  you  have  for  so  confidently 
giving  out  your  own  •  .  .  invention  for  the 
truth  ? ' 

*  My  invention !  If  I  had  imagined  it,  it 
should  not  have  made  you  angry  ;  and  as  for 
my  right,  well  I  never  heard  before  that  a  man 
ought  to  ask  himself  whether  he  had  the  right 
to  hold  out  a  hand  to  a  drowning  man.' 

'  I  am  humbly  grateful  for  your  tender  solici- 
tude,' cried  Litvinov  passionately,  '  but  I  am  not 
in  the  least  in  need  of  it,  and  all  the  phrases 
about  the  ruin  of  inexperienced  young  men 
wrought  by  society  women,  about  the  immorality 
of  fashionable  society,  and  so  on,  I  look  upon 
merely  as  stock  phrases,  and  indeed  in  a  sense  I 
positively  despise  them  ;  and  so  I  beg  you  to 
spare  your  rescuing  arm,  and  to  let  me  drown 
in  peace.' 

Potugin  again  raised  his  eyes  to  Litvinov. 
He  was  breathing  hard,  his  lips  were  twitching 

'  But  look  at  me,  young  man,'  broke  from  him 

22Q 


SMOKE 

at  last,  and  he  clapped  himself  on  the  breast : 
*  can  you  suppose  I  have  anything  in  common 
with  the  ordinary,  self-satisfied  moralist,  a 
preacher  ?  Don't  you  understand  that  simply 
from  interest  in  you,  however  strong  it  might 
be,  I  would  never  have  let  fall  a  word,  I  would 
never  have  given  you  grounds  for  reproaching 
me  with  what  I  hate  above  all  things — indis- 
cretion, intrusiveness  ?  Don't  you  see  that  this 
is  something  of  a  different  kind  altogether,  that 
before  you  is  a  man  crushed,  utterly  obliter- 
ated by  the  very  passion,  from  the  results  of 
which  he  would  save  you,  and  .  .  .  and  for  the 
same  woman  ! ' 

Litvinov  stepped  back  a  pace. 

'  Is  it  possible  ?  What  did  you  say  ?  .  .  .  You 
.  .  .  you  .  .  .  Sozont  Ivanitch?  But  Madame 
Byelsky  .  .  .  that  child  ? ' 

'  Ah,  don't  cross-examine  me  .  .  .  Believe 
me  !  That  is  a  dark  terrible  story,  and  I  'm 
not  going  to  tell  you  it.  Madame  Byelsky  I 
hardly  knew,  that  child  is  not  mine,  but  I  took 
it  all  upon  myself  .  .  .  because  .  .  .  j^  wished 
it,  because  it  was  necessary  for  her.  Why  am  I 
here  in  your  hateful  Baden  ?  And,  in  fact, 
could  you  suppose,  could  you  for  one  instant 
imagine,  that  I'd  have  brought  myself  to  caution 
you  out  of  sympathy  for  you  ?  I  'm  sorry  for 
that  sweet,  good  girl,  your  fiancee,  but  what  have 

230 


SMOKE 

I  to  do  with  your  future,  with  you  both  ?  .  .  . 
But  I  am  afraid  for  her  ...  for  her.' 

'  You  do  me  great  honour,  Mr.  Potugin,' 
began  Litvinov,  '  but  since,  according  to  you, 
we  are  both  in  the  same  position,  why  is  it  you 
don't  apply  such  exhortations  to  yourself,  and 
ought  I  not  to  ascribe  your  apprehensions  to 
another  feeling  ? ' 

*  That  is  to  jealousy,  you  mean  ?  Ah,  young 
man,  young  man,  it's  shameful  of  you  to  shuffle 
and  make  pretences,  it 's  shameful  of  you  not 
to  realise  what  a  bitter  sorrow  is  speaking  to 
you  now  by  my  lips !  No,  I  am  not  in  the 
same  position  as  you  !  I,  I  am  old,  ridiculous, 
an  utterly  harmless  old  fool — but  you  !  But 
there  's  no  need  to  talk  about  it !  You  would 
not  for  one  second  agree  to  accept  the  position 
I  fill,  and  fill  with  gratitude !  Jealousy  ?  A 
man  is  not  jealous  who  has  never  had  even  a 
drop  of  hope,  and  this  is  not  the  first  time 
it  has  been  my  lot  to  endure  this  feeling.  I  am 
only  afraid  .  .  .  afraid  for  her,  understand  that. 
And  could  I  have  guessed  when  she  sent  me  to 
you  that  the  feeling  of  having  wronged  you — she 
owned  to  feeling  that — would  carry  her  so  far  ? ' 

*  But  excuse  me,  Sozont  Ivanitch,  you  seem 
to  know  .  .  .' 

*  I  know  nothing,  and  I  know  everything !  I 
know,'  he  added,  turning  away,  *  I  know  where 

231 


SMOKE 

she  was  yesterday.  But  there  *s  no  holding  her 
back  now ;  like  a  stone  set  rolling,  she  must 
roll  on  to  the  bottom.  I  should  be  a  great 
idiot  indeed,  if  I  imagined  my  words  could  hold 
you  back  at  once  .  .  .  you,  when  a  woman  like 
that  .  .  .  But  that 's  enough  of  this.  I  couldn't 
restrain  myself,  that 's  my  whole  excuse.  And 
after  all  how  can  one  know,  and  why  not  try  ? 
Perhaps,  you  will  think  again  ;  perhaps,  some 
word  of  mine  will  go  to  your  heart,  you  will 
not  care  to  ruin  her  and  yourself,  and  that 
innocent  sweet  creature  .  .  .  Ah !  don't  be 
angry,  don't  stamp  about !  What  have  I  to 
fear  ?  Why  should  I  mince  matters  ?  It 's  not 
jealousy  speaking  in  me,  not  anger  .  .  .  I  'm 
ready  to  fall  at  your  feet,  to  beseech  you  .  .  . 
Good-bye,  though.  You  needn't  be  afraid,  all 
this  will  be  kept  secret.  I  wished  for  your 
good.' 

Potugin  strode  off  along  the  avenue  and 
quickly  vanished  in  the  now  falling  darkness. 
Litvinov  did  not  detain  him. 

*  A  terrible  dark  story  .  .  .'  Potugin  had  said 
to  Litvinov,  and  would  not  tell  it  .  .  .  Let  us 
pass  it  over  with  a  few  words  only. 

Eight  years  before,  it  had  happened  to  him  to 
be  sent  by  his  department  to  Count  Reisenbach 
as  a  temporary  clerk.  It  was  in  the  summer. 
Potugin  used  to  drive  to  his  country  villa  with 

232 


SMOKE 

papers,  and  be  whole  days  there  at  a  time. 
Irina  was  then  living  at  the  count's.  She  was 
never  haughty  with  people  in  a  humbler  station, 
at  least  she  never  treated  them  superciliously, 
and  the  countess  more  than  once  reproved  her 
for  her  excessive  Moscow  familiarity.  Irina 
soon  detected  a  man  of  intelligence  in  the 
humble  clerk,  attired  in  the  stiffly  buttoned 
frockcoat  that  was  his  uniform.  She  used  often 
and  eagerly  to  talk  to  him  .  .  .  while  he  .  .  . 
he  fell  in  love  with  her  passionately,  profoundly, 
secretly  .  .  .  Secretly !  So  he  thought.  The 
summer  passed  ;  the  count  no  longer  needed 
any  outside  assistance.  Potugin  lost  sight  of 
Irina  but  could  not  forget  her.  Three  years 
after,  he  utterly  unexpectedly  received  an  in- 
vitation, through  a  third  person,  to  go  to  see  a 
lady  slightly  known  to  him.  This  lady  at  first 
was  reluctant  to  speak  out,  but  after  exacting 
an  oath  from  him  to  keep  everything  he  was 
going  to  hear  absolutely  secret,  she  proposed  to 
him  ...  to  marry  a  girl,  who  occupied  a  con- 
spicuous position  in  society,  and  for  whom 
marriage  had  become  a  necessity.  The  lady 
scarcely  ventured  to  hint  at  the  principal  per- 
sonage, and  then  promised  Potugin  money  .  .  . 
a  large  sum  of  money.  Potugin  was  not 
offended,  astonishment  stifled  all  feeling  of 
anger  in  him  ;  but,  of  course,  he  point-blank 

233 


SMOKE 

declined.  Then  the  lady  handed  him  a  note — 
from  Irina.  'You  are  a  generous,  noble  man/ 
she  wrote,  '  and  I  know  you  would  do  anything 
for  me ;  I  beg  of  you  this  sacrifice.  You  will 
save  one  who  is  very  dear  to  me.  In  saving 
her,  you  will  save  me  too  .  .  .  Do  not  ask  me 
how.  I  could  never  have  brought  myself  to 
any  one  with  such  an  entreaty,  but  to  you  I 
hold  out  my  hands  and  say  to  you,  do  it  for 
my  sake.'  Potugin  pondered,  and  said  that  for 
Irina  Pavlovna,  certainly  he  was  ready  to  do  a 
great  deal  ;  but  he  should  like  to  hear  her  wishes 
from  her  own  lips.  The  interview  took  place 
the  same  evening  ;  it  did  not  last  long,  and  no 
one  knew  of  it,  except  the  same  lady,  Irina 
was  no  longer  living  at  Count  Reisenbach's. 

*  What  made  you  think  of  me,  of  all  people  ? ' 
Potugin  asked  her. 

She  was  beginning  to  expatiate  on  his  noble 
qualities,  but  suddenly  she  stopped  .  .  . 

*  No,'  she  said,  *  you  must  be  told  the  truth. 
I  know,  I  know  that  you  love  me  ;  so  that  was 
why  I  made  up  my  mind  .  .  .'  and  then  she 
told  him  everything. 

Eliza  Byelsky  was  an  orphan  ;  her  relations 
did  not  like  her,  and  reckoned  on  her  inherit- 
ance .  ,  .  ruin  was  facing  her.  In  saving  her, 
Irina  was  really  doing  a  service  to  him  who  was 
responsible  for  it  all,  and  who  was  himself  now 

234 


SMOKE 

standing  in  a  very  close  relation  to  Irina  .  .  . 
Potugin,  without  speaking,  looked  long  at  Irina, 
and  consented.  She  wept,  and  flung  herself  all 
in  tears  on  his  neck.  And  he  too  wept  .  .  . 
but  very  different  were  their  tears.  Everything 
had  already  been  made  ready  for  the  secret 
marriage,  a  powerful  hand  removed  all  obstacles. 
.  .  .  But  illness  came  .  .  .  and  then  a  daughter 
was  born,  and  then  the  mother  .  .  .  poisoned 
herself.  What  was  to  be  done  with  the  child  ? 
Potugin  received  it  into  his  charge,  received  it 
from  the  same  hands,  from  the  hands  of  Irina. 

A  terrible  dark  story  .  .  .  Let  us  pass  on, 
readers,  pass  on  ! 

Over  an  hour  more  passed  before  Litvinov 
could  bring  himself  to  go  back  to  his  hotel. 
He  had  almost  reached  it  when  he  suddenly 
heard  steps  behind  him.  It  seemed  as  though 
they  were  following  him  persistently,  and  walk- 
ing faster  when  he  quickened  his  pace.  When 
he  moved  under  a  lamp -post  Litvinov  turned 
round  and  recognised  General  Ratmirov.  In 
a  white  tie,  in  a  fashionable  overcoat,  flung 
open,  with  a  row  of  stars  and  crosses  on  a 
golden  chain  in  the  buttonhole  of  his  dresscoat, 
the  general  was  returning  from  dinner,  alone. 
His  eyes,  fastened  with  insolent  persistence  on 
Litvinov,  expressed  such  contempt  and  such 
hatred,  his  whole  deportment  was  suggestive  of 

2?i 


SMOKE 

such  intense  defiance,  that  Litvinov  thought  it 
his  duty,  stifling  his  wrath,  to  go  to  meet 
him,  to  face  a  '  scandal'  But  when  he  was  on  a 
level  with  Litvinov,  the  general's  face  suddenly- 
changed,  his  habitual  playful  refinement  re- 
appeared upon  it,  and  his  hand  in  its  pale 
lavender  glove  flourished  his  glossy  hat  high 
in  the  air.  Litvinov  took  off*  his  in  silence,  and 
each  went  on  his  way. 

'  He  has  noticed  something,  for  certain  !  * 
thought  Litvinov. 

*  If  only  it  were  .  ,  ,  any  one  else  ! '  thought 
the  general. 

Tatyana  was  playing  picquet  with  her  aunt 
when  Litvinov  entered  their  room. 

*  Well,  I  must  say,  you  're  a  pretty  fellow  !  * 
cried  Kapitolina  Markovna,  and  she  threw  down 
her  cards.  '  Our  first  day,  and  he 's  lost  for  the 
whole  evening  !  Here  we  've  been  waiting  and 
waiting,  and  scolding  and  scolding  .  .  .' 

'  I  said  nothing,  aunt,'  observed  Tatyana. 

*  Well,  you  're  meekness  itself,  we  all  know  ! 
You  ought  to  be  ashamed,  sir !  and  you  be- 
trothed too ! ' 

Litvinov  made  some  sort  of  excuse  and  sat 
down  to  the  table. 

*  Why  have  you  left  off  your  game  ? '  he 
asked  after  a  brief  silence. 

*  Well,  that's  a  nice  question  !     We've  been 

236 


SMOKE 

playing  cards  from  sheer  dulness,  not  knowing 
what  to  do  with  ourselves  .  ,  .  but  now  you  've 
come.' 

'  If  you  would  care  to  hear  the  evening 
music/  observed  Litvinov,  '  I  should  be  de- 
lighted to  take  you.' 

Kapitolina  Markovna  looked  at  her  niece. 

'  Let  us  go,  aunt,  I  am  ready,'  she  said,  '  but 
wouldn't  it  be  better  to  stay  at  home  ?* 

'  To  be  sure  !  Let  us  have  tea  in  our  own  old 
Moscow  way,  with  the  samovar,  and  have  a 
good  chat.  We  've  not  had  a  proper  gossip 
yet.' 

Litvinov  ordered  tea  to  be  sent  up,  but  the 
good  chat  did  not  come  off.  He  felt  a  con- 
tinual gnawing  of  conscience;  whatever  he 
said,  it  always  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  telling 
lies  and  Tatyana  was  seeing  through  it.  Mean- 
while there  was  no  change  to  be  observed  in 
her;  she  behaved  just  as  unconstrainedly  .  .  . 
only  her  look  never  once  rested  upon  Litvinov, 
but  with  a  kind  of  indulgent  timorousness 
glided  over  him,  and  she  was  paler  than 
usual. 

Kapitolina  Markovna  asked  her  whether  she 
had  not  a  headache. 

Tatyana  was  at  first  about  to  say  no,  but 
after  a  moment's  thought,  she  said,  *  Yes,  a 
little ' 

237 


SMOKE 

*  It 's  the  journey/  suggested  Litvinov,  and  he 
positively  blushed  with  shame. 

*  Yes,  the  journey/  repeated  Tatyana,  and  her 
eyes  again  glided  over  him. 

'  You  ought  to  rest,  Tanya  darling.' 

*  Yes,  I  will  go  to  bed  soon,  aunt.' 

On  the  table  lay  a  Guide  des  Voyageurs ;  Lit- 
vinov fell  to  reading  aloud  the  description  of 
the  environs  of  Baden. 

*  Quite  so/  Kapitolina  Markovna  interrupted, 
'  but  there 's  something  we  mustn't  forget.  I  'm 
told  linen  is  very  cheap  here,  so  we  must  be 
sure  to  buy  some  for  the  trousseau.* 

Tatyana  dropped  her  eyes. 
We  have  plenty  of  time,  aunt.     You  never 
think  of  yourself,  but  you  really  ought  to  get 
yourself  some  clothes.      You   see   how   smart 
every  one  is  here.' 

'  Eh,  my  love !  what  would  be  the  good  of 
that  ?  I  'm  not  a  fine  lady  !  It  would  be  another 
thing  if  I  were  such  a  beauty  as  your  friend, 
Grigory  Mihalitch,  what  was  her  name  ? ' 

*  What  friend  ? ' 

*  Why,  that  we  met  to-day.* 

*  Oh,  she  ! '  said  Litvinov,  with  feigned  indiffer- 
ence, and  again  he  felt  disgust  and  shame. 
'  No ! '  he  thought,  *  to  go  on  like  this  is  im- 
possible.' 

He  was  sitting  by  his  betrothed,  while  a  few 

238 


SMOKE 

inches  from  her  in  his  side  pocket,  was  Irina's 
handkerchief. 

Kapitoh'na  Markovna  went  for  a  minute  into 
the  other  room. 

*  Tanya  .  .  .'  said  Litvinov,  with  an  effort. 
It  was  the  first  time  that  day  he  had  called  her 
by  that  name. 

She  turned  towards  him. 

*  I  ...  I  have  something  very  important  to 
say  to  you.' 

*  Oh  !  really  ?  when  ?  directly  ? ' 

*  No,  to-morrow.' 

*  Oh  !  to-morrow.     Very  well.' 

Litvinov's  soul  was  suddenly  filled  with 
boundless  pity.  He  took  Tatyana's  hand  and 
kissed  it  humbly,  like  a  sinner ;  her  heart 
throbbed  faintly  and  she  felt  no  happiness. 

In  the  night,  at  two  o'clock,  Kapitolina 
Markovna,  who  was  sleeping  in  the  same  room 
with  her  niece,  suddenly  lifted  up  her  head  and 
listened. 

*  Tanya,'  she  said,  '  you  are  crying  ? ' 
Tatyana  did  not  at  once  answer. 

*  No,  aunt,'  sounded  her  gentle  voice,  *  I  've 
caught  a  cold.* 


239 


XX 

'Why  did  I  say  that  to  her?'  Litvinov 
thought  the  next  morning  as  he  sat  in  his 
room  at  the  window.  He  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders in  vexation  :  he  had  said  that  to  Tatyana 
simply  to  cut  himself  off  all  wa^^  of  retreat. 
In  the  window  lay  a  note  frc  Irina  :  she 
asked  him  to  see  her  at  twelve.  Potugin's 
words  incessantly  recurred  to  his  mind,  they 
seemed  to  reach  him  with  a  faint  ill-omened 
sound  as  of  a  rumbling  underground.  He 
was  angry  with  himself,  but  could  not  get  rid 
of  them  anyhow.  Some  one  knocked  at  the 
door. 

*  Wer  da  ? '  asked  Litvinov. 

*  Ah  !    you  *re    at   home  !   open  ! '  he    heard 
Bindasov's  hoarse  bass. 

The  door  handle  creaked. 

Litvinov  turned  white  with  exasperation. 

*  I  'm  not  at  home,'  he  declared  sharply. 

*  Not  at  home  ?  That 's  a  good  joke  !  * 

*  I  tell  you — not  at  home,  get  along/ 

240 


SMOKE 

'  That 's  civil !  And  I  came  to  ask  you  for 
a  little  loan/  grumbled  Bindasov. 

He  walked  off,  however,  tramping  on  his 
heels  as  usual. 

Litvinov  was  all  but  dashing  out  after  him, 
he  felt  such  a  longing  to  throttle  the  hateful 
ruffian.  The  events  of  the  last  few  days  had 
unstrung  his  nerves  ;  a  little  more,  and  he  would 
nave  burst  into  tears.  He  drank  off  a  glass  of 
cold  water,  locked  up  all  the  drawers  in  the 
furniture,  he  could  not  have  said  why,  and 
went  to  Tatyana's. 

He  found ,  her  alone.  Kapitolina  Markovna 
had  gone  ou  aiaopping.  Tatyana  was  sitting  on 
the  sofa,  holding  a  book  in  both  hands.  She 
was  not  reading  it,  and  scarcely  knew  what 
book  it  was.  She  did  not  stir,  but  her  heart 
was  beating  quickly  in  her  bosom,  and  the 
little  white  collar  round  her  neck  quivered 
visibly  and  evenly. 

Litvinov  was  confused.  .  .  .  However,  he  sat 
down  by  her,  said  good-morning,  smiled  at  her ; 
she  too  smiled  at  him  without  speaking.  She 
had  bowed  to  him  when  he  came  in,  bowed 
courteously,  not  affectionately,  and  she  did  not 
glance  at  him.  He  held  out  his  hand  to  her ; 
she  gave  him  her  chill  fingers,  but  at  once  freed 
them  again,  and  took  up  the  book.  Litvinov 
felt  that  to  begin  the  conversation  with  unim- 

241  g 


SMOKE 

portant  subjects  would  be  insulting  Tatyana ; 
she  after  her  custom  made  no  demands,  but 
everything  in  her  said  plainly,  *  I  am  waiting, 
I  am  waiting.'  .  .  .  He  must  fulfil  his  promise. 
But  though  almost  the  whole  night  he  had 
thought  of  nothing  else,  he  had  not  prepared 
even  the  first  introductory  words,  and  absolutely 
did  not  know  in  what  way  to  break  this  cruel 
silence. 

'  Tanya,'  he  began  at  last,  *  I  told  you  yester- 
day that  I  have  something  important  to  say  to 
you.  I  am  ready,  only  I  beg  you  beforehand 
not  to  be  angry  against  me,  and  to  rei .  assured 
that  my  feelings  for  you  .  .  .' 

He  stopped.  He  caught  his  breath.  Tat- 
yana still  did  not  stir,  and  did  not  look  at 
him  ;  she  only  clutched  the  book  tighter  than 
ever. 

*  There  has  always  been,*  Litvinov  went  on, 
without  finishing  the  sentence  he  had  begun, 
'  there  has  always  been  perfect  openness  between 
f.^  ;  I  respect  you  too  much  to  be  a  hypocrite 
with  you  ;  I  want  to  prove  to  you  that  I  know 
how  to  value  the  nobleness  and  independence 
of  your  nature,  even  though  .  .  .  though  of 
course  .  .  .' 

'  Grigory  Mihalitch,'  began  Tatyana  in  a 
measured  voice  while  a  deathly  pallor  over- 
spread her   whole  face,   '  I    will  come  to  your 

242 


SMOKE 

assistance,   you  no  longer  love   me,   and    you 
don't  know  how  to  tell  me  so.' 

I.itvinov  involuntarily  shuddered. 

*Why?'  ...  he  said,  hardly  intelligibly, 
'why  could  you  suppose?.  .  .  I  really  don't 
understand  .  .  .' 

'  What !  isn't  it  the  truth  ?  Isn't  it  the  truth  ? 
— tell  me,  tell  me.' 

Tatyana  turned  quite  round  to  Litvinov  ;  her 
face,  with  her  hair  brushed  back  from  it, 
approached  his  face,  and  her  eyes,  which  for  so 
long  had  not  looked  at  him,  seemed  to  penetrate 
into  his  eyes. 

*  Isn't  it  the  truth  ?  '  she  repeated. 

He  said  nothing,  did  not  utter  a  single  sound. 
He  could  not  have  lied  at  that  instant,  even 
if  he  had  known  she  would  believe  him,  and 
that  his  lie  would  save  her  ;  he  was  not  even 
able  to  bear  her  eyes  upon  him.  Litvinov  said 
nothing,  but  she  needed  no  answer,  she  read 
the  answer  in  his  very  silence,  in  those  guilty 
downcast  eyes — and  she  turned  away  again  ar 
dropped  the  book.  .  .  .  She  had  been  still 
uncertain  till  that  instant,  and  Litvinov  under- 
stood that  ;  he  understood  that  she  had  been 
still  uncertain — and  how  hideous,  actually 
hideous  was  all  that  he  was  doing. 

He  flung  himself  on  his  knees  before  her. 

*  Tanya,'   he   cried,   '  if  only  you  knew  how 

243 


SMOKE 

hard  it  is  for  me  to  see  you  in  this  position, 
how  awful  to  me  to  think  that  it 's  I  .  .  .  I  !  My 
heart  is  torn  to  pieces,  I  don't  know  myself,  I 
have  lost  myself,  and  you,  and  everything  .  .  . 
Everything  is  shattered,  Tanya,  everything ! 
Could  I  dream  that  I  ...  I  should  bring  such 
a  blow  upon  you,  my  best  friend,  my  guardian 
angel  ?  .  .  .  Could  I  dream  that  we  should  meet 
like  this,  should  spend  such  a  day  as  yester- 
day !.  .  .' 

Tatyana  was  trying  to  get  up  and  go  away. 
He  held  her  back  by  the  border  of  her  dress. 

'  No,  listen  to  me  a  minute  longer.  You  see 
I  am  on  my  knees  before  you,  but  I  have  not 
come  to  beg  your  forgiveness  ;  you  cannot,  you 
ought  not  to  forgive  me.  I  have  come  to  tell  you 
that  your  friend  is  ruined,  that  he  is  falling  into 
the  pit,  and  would  not  drag  you  down  with  him. 
, .  .  But  save  me  ...  no !  even  you  cannot  save 
me.  I  should  push  you  away,  I  am  ruined, 
Tanya,  I  am  ruined  past  all  help.* 

Tatyana  looked  at  Litvinov. 

'  You  are  ruined  ? '  she  said,  as  though  not  fully 
understanding  him.    *  You  are  ruined  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  Tanya,  I  am  ruined.  All  the  past,  all 
that  was  precious,  everything  I  have  lived  for 
up  till  now,  is  ruined  for  me ;  everything  is 
wretched,  everything  is  shattered,  and  I  don't 
know  what  awaits  me  in  the  future.     You  said 

244 


SMOKE 

just  now  that  I  no  longer  loved  you.  .  .  , 
No,  Tanya,  I  have  not  ceased  to  love  you,  but 
a  different,  terrible,  irresistible  passion  has  come 
upon  me,  has  overborne  me.  I  fought  against 
it  while  I  could.  .  .  .' 

Tatyana  got  up,  her  brows  twitched,  her  pale 
face  darkened.     Litvinov  too  rose  to  his  feet. 

*  You  love  another  woman,'  she  began,  '  and  I 
guess  who  she  is.  .  .  .  We  met  her  yesterday, 
didn't  we  ?  .  .  .  Well,  I  see  what  is  left  for  me 
to  do  now.  Since  you  say  yourself  this  passion 
is  unalterable '  .  .  .  (Tatyana  paused  an  instant, 
possibly  she  had  still  hoped  Litvinov  would  not 
let  this  last  word  pass  unchallenged,  but  he 
said  nothing),  '  it  only  remains  for  me  to  give 
you  back  .  .  .  your  word.' 

Litvinov  bent  his  head,  as  though  submissively 
receiving  a  well-deserved  blow. 

*  You  have  every  right  to  be  angry  with  me,* 
he  said.  *  You  have  every  right  to  reproach 
me  for  feebleness  .  .  .  for  deceit.' 

Tatyana  looked  at  him  again. 

*  I  have  not  reproached  you,  Litvinov,  I  don't 
blame  you.  I  agree  with  you  :  the  bitterest 
truth  is  better  than  what  went  on  yesterday. 
What  sort  of  a  life  could  ours  have  been 
now ! ' 

'What  sort  of  a  life  will  mine  be  now!* 
echoed  mournfully  in  Litvinov's  soul. 

245 


SMOKE 

Tatyana  went  towards  the  door  of  the  bed- 
room. 

'  I  will  ask  you  to  leave  me  alone  for  a  little 
time,  Grigory  Mihalitch — we  will  see  each  other 
again,  we  will  talk  again.  All  this  has  been 
so  unexpected  I  want  to  collect  myself  a 
little  .  .  .  leave  me  alone  .  .  .  spare  my  pride. 
We  shall  see  each  other  again.' 

And  uttering  these  words,  Tatyana  hurriedly 
withdrew  and  locked  the  door  after  her. 

Litvinov  went  out  into  the  street  like  a  man 
dazed  and  stunned  ;  in  the  very  depths  of  his 
heart  something  dark  and  bitter  lay  hid,  such 
a  sensation  must  a  man  feel  who  has  mur- 
dered another ;  and  at  the  same  time  he  felt 
easier  as  though  he  had  at  last  flung  off  a 
hated  load.  Tatyana's  magnanimity  had  crushed 
him,  he  felt  vividly  all  that  he  had  lost  .  .  . 
and  yet  ?  with  his  regret  was  mingled  irritation  ; 
he  yearned  towards  Irina  as  to  the  sole  refuge 
left  him,  and  felt  bitter  against  her.  For  some 
time  Litvinov's  feelings  had  been  every  day 
growing  more  violent  and  more  complex  ;  this 
complexity  tortured  him,  exasperated  him,  he 
was  lost  in  this  chaos.  He  thirsted  for  one 
thing ;  to  get  out  at  last  on  to  the  path,  what- 
ever it  might  be,  if  only  not  to  wander  longer 
in  this  incomprehensible  half-darkness.  Practi- 
cal people  of  Litvinov's  sort  ought  never  to  be 

246 


SMOKE 

carried  away  by  passion,  it  destroys  the  very 
meaning  of  their  Hves.  .  .  .  But  nature  cares 
nothing  for  logic,  our  human  logic ;  she  has  her 
own,  which  we  do  not  recognise  and  do  not 
acknowledge  till  we  are  crushed  under  its  wheel. 
On  parting  from  Tatyana,  Litvinov  held  one 
thought  in  his  mind,  to  see  Irina  ;  he  set 
off  indeed  to  see  her.  But  the  general  was 
at  home,  so  at  least  the  porter  told  him,  and 
he  did  not  care  to  go  in,  he  did  not  feel 
himself  capable  of  hypocrisy,  and  he  moved 
slowly  off  towards  the  Konversation  Hall. 
Litvinov's  incapacity  for  hypocrisy  was  evident 
that  day  to  both  Voroshilov  and  Pishtchal- 
kin,  who  happened  to  meet  him  ;  he  simply 
blurted  out  to  the  former  that  he  was  empty  as 
a  drum  ;  to  the  latter  that  he  bored  every  one  to 
extinction  ;  it  was  lucky  indeed  that  Bindasov 
did  come  across  him  ;  there  wowld  certainly 
have  been  a  '  grosser  Scandal.'  Both  the  young 
men  were  stupefied  ;  Voroshilov  went  so  far  as 
to  ask  himself  whether  his  honour  as  an  officer 
did  not  demand  satisfaction  ?  But  like  Gogol's 
lieutenant,  Pirogov,  he  calmed  himself  with 
bread  and  butter  in  a  cafe.  Litvinov  caught 
sight  in  the  distance  of  Kapitolina  Markovna 
running  busily  from  shop  to  shop  in  her  striped 
mantle.  .  .  .  He  felt  ashamed  to  face  the  good, 
absurd,  generous  old  lady.     Then  he  recalled 

247 


SMOKE 

Potugin,  their  conversation  yesterday.  .  .  .  Then 
something  was  wafted  to  him,  something  in- 
tangible and  unmistakable  :  if  a  falling  shadow 
shed  a  fragrance,  it  could  not  be  more  elusive, 
but  he  felt  at  once  that  it  was  Irina  near  him, 
and  in  fact  she  appeared  a  few  paces  from  him, 
arm-in-arm  with  another  lady  ;  their  eyes  met 
at  once.  Irina  probably  noticed  something 
peculiar  in  the  expression  of  Litvinov's  face  ; 
she  stopped  before  a  shop,  in  which  a  number 
of  tiny  wooden  clocks  of  Black  Forest  make 
were  exhibited,  and  summoning  him  by  a 
motion  of  her  head,  she  pointed  to  one  of  these 
clocks,  and  calling  upon  him  to  admire  a  charm- 
ing clock-face  with  a  painted  cuckoo  above  it, 
she  said,  not  in  a  whisper,  but  as  though  finish- 
ing a  phrase  begun,  in  her  ordinary  tone  of 
voice,  much  less  likely  to  attract  the  attention 
of  outsiders, '  Come  in  an  hour's  time,  I  shall 
be  alone.' 

But  at  this  moment  the  renowned  lady-killer 
Monsieur  Verdier  swooped  down  upon  her,  and 
began  to  fall  into  ecstasies  over  the  colour, 
feuille  morte,  of  her  gown  and  the  low-crowned 
Spanish  hat  she  wore  tilted  almost  down  to  her 
eyebrows.  .  .  Litvinov  vanished  in  the  crowd. 


•48 


XXI 

*  Grigory,'  Irina  was  saying  to  him  two  hours 
later,  as  she  sat  beside  him  on  the  sofa,  and 
laid  both  hands  on  his  shoulder,  '  what  is  the 
matter  with  you  ?  Tell  me  now  quickly,  while 
we  're  alone.' 

'  The  matter  with  me  ?  '  said  Litvinov.  *  I  am 
happy,  happy,  that's  what 's  the  matter  with  me.' 

Irina  looked  down,  smiled,  sighed. 

'  That 's  not  an  answer  to  my  question,  my 
dear  one.' 

Litvinov  grew  thoughtful. 

'Well,  let  me  tell  you  then  ♦  .  .  since  you 
insist  positively  on  it'  (Irina  opened  her  eyes 
wide  and  trembled  slightly),  *  I  have  told  every- 
thing to-day  to  my  betrothed.' 

'  What,  everything  ?     You  mentioned  me  ?  * 

Litvinov  fairly  threw  up  his  arms. 

'  Irina,  for  God's  sake,  how  could  such  an  idea 
enter  your  head  !  that  I ' 

'  There,  forgive  me  .  .  ,  forgive  me.  What 
did  you  say  ?  ' 

249 


SMOKE 

*  I  told  her  that  I  no  longer  loved  her.' 

*  She  asked  why  ? ' 

*  I  did  not  disguise  the  fact  that  I  loved 
another  woman,  and  that  we  must  part.' 

*  Ah  .  .  .  and  what  did  she  do  ?     Agreed  ?  * 

*  O  Irina !  what  a  girl  she  is !  She  was  all 
self-sacrifice,  all  generosity  ! ' 

*  I  Ve  no  doubt,  I  Ve  no  doubt  .  .  .  there  was 
nothing  else  for  her  to  do,  though/ 

'And  not  one  reproach,  not  one  hard  word 
to  me,  who  have  spoiled  her  whole  life,  deceived 
her,  pitilessly  flung  her  over.  .  .  .' 

Irina  scrutinised  her  finger  nails. 

'  Tell  me,  Grigory  .  .  .  did  she  love  you  ?  * 

*  Yes,  Irina,  she  loved  me.' 

Irina  was  silent  a  minute,  she  straightened 
her  dress. 

*  I  must  confess,'  she  began,  '  I  don't  quite 
understand  what  induced  you  to  explain  matters 
to  her.' 

*  What  induced  me,  Irina  !  Would  you  have 
liked  me  to  lie,  to  be  a  hypocrite  to  her,  that 
pure  soul  ?  or  did  you  suppose ' 

'  I  supposed  nothing,'  Irina  interrupted.  *  I 
must  admit  I  have  thought  very  little  about  her. 
I  don't  know  how  to  think  of  two  people  at 
once.' 

*  That  is,  you  mean ' 

*Well,   and   so  what   then?      Is  she  going 

250 


SMOKE 

away,   that   pure    soul?*    Irina   interrupted    a 
second  time. 

'  I  know  nothing,'  answered  Litvinov.  *  I  am 
to  see  her  again.     But  she  will  not  stay.' 

*  Ah  !  bo7t  voyage  ! ' 

*  No,  she  will  not  stay.  But  I  'm  not  think- 
ing of  her  either  now,  I  am  thinking  of  what 
you  said  to  me,  what  you  have  promised  me.' 

Irina  looked  up  at  him  from  under  her  eye- 
lids. 

*  Ungrateful  one  !  aren't  you  content  yet  ? ' 

*  No,  Irina,  I  'm  not  content.  You  have  made 
me  happy,  but  I  'm  not  content,  and  you  under- 
stand me.' 

'  That  is,  I ' 

*  Yes,  you  understand  me.  Remember  your 
words,  remember  what  you  wrote  to  me.  I 
can't  share  you  with  others  ;  no,  no,  I  can't 
consent  to  the  pitiful  role  of  secret  lover  ;  not 
my  life  alone,  this  other  life  too  I  have  flung  at 
your  feet,  I  have  renounced  everything,  I  have 
crushed  it  all  to  dust,  without  compunction  and 
beyond  recall ;  but  in  return  I  trust,  I  firmly 
believe,  that  you  too  will  keep  your  promise, 
and  unite  your  lot  with  mine  for  ever.' 

*  You  want  me  to  run  away  with  you  ?  I  am 
ready.  .  .  .'  (Litvinov  bent  down  to  her  hands 
in  ecstasy.)  *  I  am  ready.  I  will  not  go  back 
from  my  word.     But  have  you  yourself  thought 

251 


SMOKE 

over  all  the  difficulties — have  you  made  pre- 
parations ? ' 

*  I  ?  I  have  not  had  time  yet  to  think  over 
or  prepare  anything,  but  only  say  yes,  let  me 
act,  and  before  a  month  is  over  .  .  .' 

'A  month  !  we  start  for  Italy  in  a  fortnight.' 
'  A  fortnight,  then,  is  enough  for  me.  O 
Irina,  you  seem  to  take  my  proposition  coldly  ; 
perhaps  it  seems  unpractical  to  you,  but  I  am  not 
a  boy,  I  am  not  used  to  comforting  myself 
with  dreams,  I  know  what  a  tremendous  step 
this  is,  I  know  what  a  responsibility  I  am  taking 
on  myself;  but  I  can  see  no  other  course. 
Think  of  it,  I  must  break  every  tie  with  the 
past,  if  only  not  to  be  a  contemptible  liar 
in  the  eyes  of  the  girl  I  have  sacrificed  for 
you  ! ' 

Irina  drew  herself  up  suddenly  and  her  eyes 
flashed. 

*  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  Grigory  Mihalitch ! 
If  I  decide,  if  I  run  away,  then  it  will  at  least 
be  with  a  man  who  does  it  for  my  sake,  for  my 
sake  simply,  and  not  in  order  that  he  may  not  de- 
grade himself  in  the  good  opinion  of  a  phlegmatic 
young  person,  with  milk  and  water,  du  lait  coupe 
instead  of  blood,  in  her  veins  !  And  I  must  tell 
you  too,  it 's  the  first  time,  I  confess,  that  it 's 
been  my  lot  to  hear  that  the  man  I  honour 
with  my  regard  is  deserving  of  commiseration, 

2  Ii2 


SMOKE 

playing  a  pitiful  part!  I  know  a  far  more 
pitiful  part,  the  part  of  a  man  who  doesn't  know 
what  is  going  on  in  his  own  heart ! ' 

Litvinov  drew  himself  up  in  his  turn. 

*  Irina,'  he  was  beginning 

But  all  at  once  she  clapped  both  hands  to  her 
forehead,  and  with  a  convulsive  motion,  flinging 
herself  on  his  breast,  she  embraced  him  with 
force  beyond  a  woman's. 

'  Forgive  me,  forgive  me,'  she  began,  with  a 
shaking  voice,  'forgive  me,  Grigory !  You 
see  how  corrupted  I  am,  how  horrid  I  am,  how 
jealous  and  wicked  !  You  see  how  I  need  your 
aid,  your  indulgence !  Yes,  save  me,  drag  me 
out  of  this  mire,  before  I  am  quite  ruined! 
Yes,  let  us  run  away,  let  us  run  away  from  these 
people,  from  this  society  to  some  far  off,  fair, 
free  country !  Perhaps  your  Irina  will  at  last 
be  worthier  of  the  sacrifices  you  are  making  for 
her !  Don't  be  angry  with  me,  forgive  me,  my 
sweet,  and  know  that  I  will  do  everything  you 
command,  I  will  go  anywhere  you  will  take  me!' 

Litvinov's  heart  was  in  a  turmoil.  Irina  clung 
closer  than  before  to  him  with  all  her  youthful 
supple  body.  He  bent  over  her  fragrant,  dis- 
ordered tresses,  and  in  an  intoxication  of  grati- 
tude and  ecstasy,  he  hardly  dared  to  caress 
them  with  his  hand,  he  hardly  touched  them 
with  his  lips. 

253 


SMOKE 

'  Irina,  Irlna,'  he  repeated, — *  my  angel.  .  ,  .' 
She  suddenly  raised  her  head,  Hstened.  .  .  . 
*It's  my  husband's  step,  ...  he  has  gone 
into  his  room,'  she  whispered,  and,  moving 
hurriedly  away,  she  crossed  over  to  another 
armchair.  Litvinov  was  getting  up.  ...  *  What 
are  you  doing  ? '  she  went  on  in  the  same  whis- 
per ;  *  you  must  stay,  he  suspects  you  as  it  is. 
Or  are  you  afraid  of  him  ? '  She  did  not  take 
her  eyes  off  the  door.  *  Yes,  it 's  he  ;  he  will  come 
in  here  directly.  Tell  me  something,  talk  to  me.' 
Litvinov  could  not  at  once  recover  himself  and 
was  silent.  '  Aren't  you  going  to  the  theatre  to- 
morrow ? '  she  uttered  aloud.  *  They  're  giving 
Le  Verve  d'Eau,  an  old-fashioned  piece,  and 
Plessy  is  awfully  affected.  .  .  .  We're  as  though 
we  were  in  a  perfect  fever,'  she  added,  dropping 
her  voice.  '  We  can't  do  anything  like  this  ;  we 
must  think  things  over  well.  I  ought  to  warn  you 
that  all  my  money  is  in  his  hands ;  mats  fdi 
vies  bijoux.  We  '11  go  to  Spain,  would  you  like 
that  ? '  She  raised  her  voice  again.  *  Why  is  it 
all  actresses  get  so  fat?  Madeleine  Brohan  for 
instance.  .  .  .  Do  talk,  don't  sit  so  silent.  My 
head  is  going  round.  But  you,  you  must  not 
doubt  me.  ...  I  will  let  you  know  where  to 
come  to-morrow.  Only  it  was  a  mistake  to  have 
told  that  young  lady.  .  .  .  Ah,  inais  dest  char- 
ina7it ! '  she  cried  suddenly  and  with  a  nervous 

2154 


SMOKE 

laugh,  she  tore  the  lace  edge  of  her  handker- 
chief. 

'  May  I  come  in  ? '  asked  Ratmirov  from  the 
other  room. 

'  Yes  .  .  .  yes.' 

The  door  opened,  and  in  the  doorway 
appeared  the  general.  He  scowled  on  seeing 
Litvinov ;  however,  he  bowed  to  them,  that 
is  to  say,  he  bent  the  upper  portion  of  his 
person. 

'  I  did  not  know  you  had  a  visitor,'  he  said  : 
'je  vous  demande  pardon  de  mon  indiscretion.  So 
you  still  find  Baden  entertaining,  M'sieu — 
Litvinov  ? ' 

Ratmirov  always  uttered  Litvinov's  surname 
with  hesitation,  every  time,  as  though  he  had 
forgotten  it,  and  could  not  at  once  recall  it.  ,  .  . 
In  this  way,  as  well  as  by  the  lofty  flourish  of 
his  hat  in  saluting  him,  he  meant  to  insult  his 
pride. 

'  I  am  not  bored  here,  m'sieu  le  gen^ral.^ 

*  Really  ?  Well,  I  find  Baden  fearfully  boring. 
We  are  soon  going  away,  are  we  not,  Irina 
Pavlovna  ?  Assez  de  Bade  cotnme  qa.  By  the 
way,  I  've  won  you  five  hundred  francs  to- 
day.' 

Irina  stretched  out  her  hand  coquettishly. 

*  Where  are  they  ?  Please  let  me  have  them 
for  pin-money.' 

255 


SMOKE 

*  You  shall  have  them,  you  shall  have  them. . , , 
You  are  going,  M'sieu — Litvinov  ? ' 

*  Yes,  I  am  goiiiL;,  as  you  see.* 
Ratmirov  again  bent  his  body. 
*Till  we  meet  again  ! ' 

*  Good-bye,  Grigory  Mihalitch,*  said  Irina.  *  I 
will  keep  my  promise.' 

•What  is  that?     May  I  be  inquisitive?'  her 
husband  queried. 
Irina  smiled. 

*  No,  it  was  only  .  .  .  something  we  've  been 
talking  of.  C'esi  a  propos  du  voyage  .  ,  ,  ou  il 
vous plaira.    You  know — Stael's  book?' 

'  Ah !  ah  !  to  be  sure,  I  know.  Charming 
illustrations.' 

Ratmirov  seemed  on  the  best  of  terms  with 
his  wife ;  he  called  her  by  her  pet  name  in 
addressing  her. 


356 


XXII 

'Better  not  think  now,  really/  Litvinov  re- 
peated, as  he  strode  along  the  street,  feeling 
that  the  inward  riot  was  rising  up  again  in  him. 
'  The  thing 's  decided.  She  will  keep  her  pro- 
mise, and  it  only  remains  for  me  to  take  all 
necessary  steps.  .  .  .  Yet  she  hesitates,  it 
seems.'  .  .  .  He  shook  his  head.  His  own 
designs  struck  even  his  own  imagination  in  a 
strange  light ;  there  was  a  smack  of  arti- 
ficiality, of  unreality  about  them.  One  can- 
not dwell  long  upon  the  same  thoughts ;  they 
gradually  shift  like  the  bits  of  glass  in  a  kalei- 
doscope .  .  .  one  peeps  in,  and  already  the 
shapes  before  one's  eyes  are  utterly  different. 
A  sensation  of  intense  weariness  overcame  Lit- 
vinov. .  .  .  If  he  could  for  one  short  hour  but 
rest !  .  .  .  But  Tanya  ?  He  started,  and,  without 
reflecting  even,  turned  submissively  homewards, 
merely  struck  by  the  idea,  that  this  day  was 
tossing  him  like  a  ball  from  one  to  the  other.  .  . . 
No  matter ;  he  must  make  an  end.     He  went 

257  R 


SMOKE 

back  to  his  hotel,  and  with  the  same  submissive- 
ness,  insensibility,  numbness,  without  hesitation 
or  delay,  he  went  to  see  Tatyana. 

He  was  met  by  Kapitolina  Markovna.  From 
the  first  glance  at  her,  he  knew  that  she  knew 
about  it  all ;  the  poor  maiden  lady's  eyes  were 
swollen  with  weeping,  and  her  flushed  face, 
fringed  with  her  dishevelled  white  locks,  ex- 
pressed dismay  and  an  agony  of  indignation, 
sorrow,  and  boundless  amazement.  She  was  on 
the  point  of  rushing  up  to  Litvinov,  but  she 
stopped  short,  and,  biting  her  quivering  lip,  she 
looked  at  him  as  though  she  would  supplicate 
him,  and  kill  him,  and  assure  herself  that  it 
was  a  dream,  a  senseless,  impossible  thing, 
wasn't  it  ? 

'  Here  you  .  .  .  you  are  come,'  she  began.  .  .  . 
The  door  from  the  next  room  opened  instantane- 
ously, and  with  a  light  tread  Tatyana  came 
in  ;  she  was  of  a  transparent  pallor,  but  she 
was  quite  calm. 

She  gently  put  one  arm  round  her  aunt  and 
made  her  sit  down  beside  her. 

*  You  sit  down  too,  Grigory  Mihalitch,'  she  said 
to  Litvinov,  who  was  standing  like  one  dis- 
traught at  the  door.  '  I  am  very  glad  to  see 
you  once  more.  I  have  informed  auntie  of  your 
decision,  our  common  decision  ;  she  fully  shares 
it  and  approves  of  it.  .  .  .  Without  mutual  love 

258 


SMOKE 

there  can  be  no  happiness,  mutual  esteem  alone 
is  not  enough '  (at  the  word  '  esteem  '  Litvinov 
involuntarily  looked  down)  *  and  better  to  sepa- 
rate now,  than  to  repent  later.     Isn't  it,  aunt?  ' 

'  Yes,  of  course,'  began  Kapitolina  Markovna, 
*of  course,  Tanya  darling,  the  man  who  does 
not  know  how  to  appreciate  you  .  ,  .  who  could 
bring  himself * 

'Aunt,  aunt,'  Tatyana  interrupted,  'remem- 
ber what  you  promised  me.  You  always  told 
me  yourself:  truth,  Tatyana,  truth  before  every- 
thing— and  independence.  Well,  truth 's  not 
always  sweet,  nor  independence  either ;  or  else 
where  would  be  the  virtue  of  it  ?  ' 

She  kissed  Kapitolina  Markovna  on  her 
white  hair,  and  turning  to  Litvinov,  she  went 
on : 

'  We  propose,  aunt  and  I,  leaving  Baden.  .  .  . 
I  think  it  will  be  more  comfortable  so  for  all 
of  us.' 

*  When  do  you  think  of  going  ? '  Litvinov 
said  thickly.  He  remembered  that  Irina  had 
said  the  very  same  words  to  him  not  long 
before. 

Kapitolina  Markovna  was  darting  forward, 
but  Tatyana  held  her  back,  with  a  caressing 
touch  on  her  shoulder. 

*  Probably  soon,  very  soon.' 

*And  will  you  allow  me  to  ask  where  you 

259 


SMOKE 

intend  going?*  Litvinov  said  in  the  same 
voice. 

'  First  to  Dresden,  then  probably  to  Russia/ 

'  But  what  can  you  want  to  know  that  for 
now,  Grigory  Mihalitch?'  .  ,  .  cried  Kapitolina 
Markovna. 

*Aunt,  aunt,'  Tatyana  interposed  again.  A 
brief  silence  followed. 

'Tatyana  Petrovna,'  began  Litvinov,  'you 
know  how  agonisingly  painful  and  bitter  my 
feelings  must  be  at  this  instant' 

Tatyana  got  up. 

*  Grigory  Mihalitch,'  she  said,  *  we  will  not 
talk  about  that  ...  if  you  please,  I  beg  you 
for  my  sake,  if  not  for  your  own.  I  have 
known  you  long  enough,  and  I  can  very 
well  imagine  what  you  must  be  feeling  now. 
But  what's  the  use  of  talking,  of  touching  a 
sore '  (she  stopped ;  it  was  clear  she  wanted 
to  stem  the  emotion  rushing  upon  her,  to 
swallow  the  rising  tears  ;  she  succeeded) — '  why 
fret  a  sore  we  cannot  heal  ?  Leave  that  to  time. 
And  now  I  have  to  ask  a  service  of  you,  Grigory 
Mihalitch  ;  if  you  will  be  so  good,  I  will  give  you 
a  letter  directly :  take  it  to  the  post  yourself, 
it  is  rather  important,  but  aunt  and  I  have  no 
time  now.  ...  I  shall  be  much  obliged  to  you. 
Wait  a  minute.  ...  I  will  bring  it  directly.  .  .  .' 

In  the  doorway  Tatyana  glanced  uneasily  at 

260 


SMOKE 

Kapitolina  Markovna  ;  but  she  was  sitting  with 
such  dignity  and  decorum,  with  such  a  severe 
expression  on  her  knitted  brows  and  tightly 
compressed  lips,  that  Tatyana  merely  gave  her 
a  significant  nod  and  went  out. 

But  scarcely  had  the  door  closed  behind  her, 
when  every  trace  of  dignity  and  severity  instan- 
taneously vanished  from  Kapitolina  Markovna's 
face ;  she  got  up,  ran  on  tiptoe  up  to  Litvinov, 
and  all  hunched  together  and  trying  to  look 
him  in  the  face,  she  began  in  a  quaking  tearful 
whisper  : 

'  Good  God,'  she  said,  *Grigory  Mihalitch,  what 
does  it  mean  ?  is  it  a  dream  or  what  ?  You  give 
up  Tanya,  you  tired  of  her,  you  breaking  your 
word  !  You  doing  this,  Grigory  Mihalitch,  you 
on  whom  we  all  counted  as  if  you  were  a  stone 
wall !  You  ?  you  ?  you,  Grisha  ? '  .  .  .  Kapitolina 
Markovna  stopped.  'Why,  you  will  kill  her, 
Grigory  Mihalitch,'  she  went  on,  without  waiting 
for  an  answer,  while  her  tears  fairly  coursed  in  fine 
drops  over  her  cheeks.  '  You  mustn't  judge  by 
her  bearing  up  now,  you  know  her  character! 
She  never  complains  ;  she  does  not  think  of  her- 
self, so  others  must  think  of  her !  She  keeps  say- 
ing to  me,  "  Aunt,  we  must  save  our  dignity  ! " 
but  what's  dignity,  when  I  foresee  death,  death 
before  us  ? '  .  .  .  Tatyana's  chair  creaked  in  the 
next  room     *  Yes,  I  foresee  death,'  the  old  lady 

261 


SMOKE 

went  on  still  more  softly.  *  And  how  can  such  a 
thing  have  come  about  ?  Is  it  witchcraft,  or 
what  ?  It 's  not  long  since  you  were  writing 
her  the  tenderest  letters.  And  in  fact  can  an 
honest  man  act  like  this  ?  I  'm  a  woman,  free, 
as  you  know,  from  prejudice  of  any  sort,  esprit 
fort,  and  I  have  given  Tanya  too  the  same  sort 
of  education,  she  too  has  a  free  mind.  .  .  . ' 

*  Aunt ! '  came  Tatyana's  voice  from  the  next 
room. 

*  But  one's  word  of  honour  is  a  duty,  Grigory 
Mihalitch,  especially  for  people  of  your,  of  my 
principles !  If  we  're  not  going  to  recognise 
duty,  what  is  left  us  ?  This  cannot  be  broken 
off  in  this  way,  at  your  whim,  without  regard  to 
what  may  happen  to  another!  It's  unprin- 
cipled .  .  .  yes,  it 's  a  crime ;  a  strange  sort  of 
freedom ! ' 

*  Aunt,  come  here  please,'  was  heard  again. 

*  I  'm  coming,  my  love,  I  'm  coming  .  .  .* 
Kapitolina  Markovna  clutched  at  Litvinov's 
hand. — *I  see  you  are  angry,  Grigory  Mihalitch.' 
.  .  .  (*  Me !  me  angry  ? '  he  wanted  to  exclaim, 
but  his  tongue  was  dumb.)  *  I  don't  want  to 
make  you  angry — oh,  really,  quite  the  contrary ! 
I  've  come  even  to  entreat  you ;  think  again  while 
there  is  time  ;  don't  destroy  her,  don't  destroy 
your  own  happiness,  she  will  still  trust  you, 
Grisha,  she  will  believe  in  you,  nothing  is  lost 

262 


SMOKE 

yet ;  why,  she  loves  you  as  no  one  will  ever  love 
you !  Leave  this  hateful  Baden-Baden,  let  us 
go  away  together,  only  throw  off  this  enchant- 
ment, and,  above  all,  have  pity,  have  pity ' 

'  Aunt ! '  called  Tatyana,  with  a  shade  of  im- 
patience in  her  voice. 

But  Kapitolina  Markovna  did  not  hear  her. 

*  Only  say  "  yes,"  '  she  repeated  to  Litvinov  ; 
*and  I  will  still  make  everything  smooth.  .  .  . 
You  need^nly  nod  your  head  to  me,  just  one 
little  nod  like  this.' 

Litvinov  would  gladly,  he  felt,  have  died  at 
that  instant ;  but  the  word  '  yes '  he  did  not 
utter,  and  he  did  not  nod  his  head. 

Tatyana  reappeared  with  a  letter  in  her  hand. 
Kapitolina  Markovna  at  once  darted  away  from 
Litvinov,  and,  averting  her  face,  bent  low  over 
the  table,  as  though  she  were  looking  over  the 
bills  and  papers  that  lay  on  it. 

Tatyana  went  up  to  Litvinov. 

*  Here,'  she  said,  '  is  the  letter  I  spoke  of.  .  .  . 
You  will  go  to  the  post  at  once  with  it,  won't 
you?' 

Litvinov  raised  his  eyes.  .  .  .  Before  him, 
really,  stood  his  judge.  Tatyana  struck  him  as 
taller,  slenderer;  her  face,  shining  with  unwonted 
beauty,  had  the  stony  grandeur  of  a  statue's ; 
her  bosom  did  not  heave,  and  her  gown,  of  one 
colour  and  straight  as  a  Greek  chiton,  fell  in  the 

263 


SMOKE 

long,  unbroken  folds  of  marble  drapery  to  her 
feet,  which  were  hidden  by  it.  Tatyana  was 
looking  straight  before  her,  only  at  Litvinov ; 
her  cold,  calm  gaze,  too,  was  the  gaze  of  a 
statue.  He  read  his  sentence  in  it ;  he  bowed; 
took  a  letter  from  the  hand  held  out  so  im- 
movably to  him,  and  silently  withdrew. 

Kapitolina  Markovna  ran  to  Tatyana;  but  the 
latter  turned  off  her  embraces  and  dropped  her 
eyes  ;  a  flush  of  colour  spread  over  her  face,  and 
with  the  words, '  and  now,  the  sooner  the  better/ 
she  went  into  the  bedroom.  Kapitolina  Mar- 
kovna followed  her  with  hanging  head. 

The  letter,  entrusted  to  Litvinov  by  Tatyana, 
was  addressed  to  one  of  her  Dresden  friends — a 
German  lady — who  let  small  furnished  apart- 
ments. Litvinov  dropped  the  letter  into  the 
post-box,  and  it  seemed  to  him  as  though  with 
that  tiny  scrap  of  paper  he  was  dropping  all 
his  past,  all  his  life  into  the  tomb.  He  went 
out  of  the  town,  and  strolled  a  long  time  by 
narrow  paths  between  vineyards  ;  he  could  not 
shake  off  the  persistent  sensation  of  contempt 
for  himself,  like  the  importunate  buzzing  of  flies 
in  summer :  an  unenviable  part,  indeed,  he  had 
played  in  the  last  interview.  .  .  .  And  when  he 
went  back  to  his  hotel,  and  after  a  little  time 
inquired  about  the  ladies,  he  was  told  that 
immediately  after  he  had  gone  out,  they  had 

264 


SMOKE 

given  orders  to  be  driven  to  the  railway  station, 
and  had  departed  by  the  mail  train — to  what 
destination  was  not  known.  Their  things  had 
been  packed  and  their  bills  paid  ever  since  the 
morning.  Tatyana  had  asked  Litvinov  to  take 
her  letter  to  the  post,  obviously  with  the  object 
of  getting  him  out  of  the  way.  He  ventured 
to  ask  the  hall-porter  whether  the  ladies  had 
left  any  letters  for  him,  but  the  porter  replied 
in  the  negative,  and  looked  amazed  even  ;  it 
was  clear  that  this  sudden  exit  from  rooms 
taken  for  a  week  struck  him  too  as  strange  and 
dubious.  Litvinov  turned  his  back  on  him,  and 
locked  himself  up  in  his  room. 

He  did  not  leave  it  till  the  following  day:  the 

greater  part  of  the  night  he  was  sitting  at  the 

table,  writing,  and  tearing  what  he  had  written. 

.  .  The  dawn  was  already  beginning  when  he 

finished  his  task — it  was  a  letter  to  Irina. 


265 


XXIII 

This  was  what  was  in  this  letter  to  Irina : 

*  My  betrothed  went  away  yesterday ;  we 
shall  never  see  each  other  again.  ...  I  do  not 
know  even  for  certain  where  she  is  going  to 
live.  With  her,  she  takes  all  that  till  now 
seemed  precious  and  desirable  to  me  ;  all  my 
previous  ideas,  my  plans,  my  intentions,  have 
gone  with  her ;  my  labours  even  are  wasted,  my 
work  of  years  ends  in  nothing,  all  my  pursuits 
have  no  meaning,  no  applicability ;  all  that  is 
dead ;  myself,  my  old  self,  is  dead  and  buried 
since  yesterday.  I  feel,  I  see,  I  know  this 
clearly  ...  far  am  I  from  regretting  this. 
Not  to  lament  of  it,  have  I  begun  upon 
this  to  you.  .  .  .  As  though  I  could  complain 
when  you  love  me,  Irina !  I  wanted  only 
to  tell  you  that,  of  all  this  dead  past,  all 
those  hopes  and  efforts,  turned  to  smoke  and 
ashes,  there  is  only  one  thing  left  living, 
invincible,  my  love  for  you.  Except  that  love, 
nothing  is  left  for  me ;  to  say  it  is  the  sole 

266' 


SMOKE 

thing  precious  to  me,  would  be  too  little  ;  I  live 
wholly  in  that  love ;  that  love  is  my  whole 
being  ;  in  it  are  my  future,  my  career,  my  voca- 
tion, my  country !  You  know  me,  Irina  ;  you 
know  that  fine  talk  of  any  sort  is  foreign  to  my 
nature,  hateful  to  me,  and  however  strong  the 
words  in  which  I  try  to  express  my  feelings,  you 
will  have  no  doubts  of  their  sincerity,  you  will 
not  suppose  them  exaggerated.  I  'm  not  a  boy, 
in  the  impulse  of  momentary  ecstasy,  lisping 
unreflecting  vows  to  you,  but  a  man  of  matured 
age — simply  and  plainly,  almost  with  terror, 
telling  you  what  he  has  recognised  for  unmis- 
takable truth.  Yes,  your  love  has  replaced 
everything  for  me  —  everything,  everything  ! 
Judge  for  yourself:  can  I  leave  this  my  all  in 
the  hands  of  another  ?  can  I  let  him  dispose  of 
you  ?  You — you  will  belong  to  him,  my  whole 
being,  my  heart's  blood  will  belong  to  him — 
while  I  myself  .  .  .  where  am  I  ?  what  am  I  ? 
An  outsider — an  onlooker  .  .  .  looking  on  at 
my  own  life!  No,  that's  impossible,  impos- 
sible! To  share,  to  share  in  secret  that  with- 
out which  it 's  useless,  impossible  to  live  . .  . 
that 's  deceit  and  death.  I  know  how  great  a 
sacrifice  I  am.  asking  of  you,  without  any  sort 
of  right  to  it ;  indeed,  what  can  give  one  a 
right  to  sacrifice?  But  I  am  not  acting  thus 
from  egoism :   an  egoist  would   find   it  easier 

267 


SMOKE 

and  smoother  not  to  raise  this  question  at  all. 
Yes,  my  demands  are  difficult,  and  I  am  not 
surprised  that  they  alarm  you.  The  people 
among  whom  you  have  to  live  are  hateful  to 
you,  you  are  sick  of  society,  but  are  you  strong 
enough  to  throw  up  that  society?  to  trample  on 
the  success  it  has  crowned  you  with  ?  to  rouse 
public  opinion  against  you — the  opinion  of  these 
hateful  people  ?  Ask  yourself,  Irina,  don't  take 
a  burden  upon  you  greater  than  you  can  bear. 
I  don't  want  to  reproach  you  ;  but  remember : 
once  already  you  could  not  hold  out  against 
temptation.  I  can  give  you  so  little  in  return 
for  all  you  are  losing.  Hear  my  last  word :  if 
you  don't  feel  capable  to-morrow,  to-day  even, 
of  leaving  all  and  following  me — you  see 
how  boldly  I  speak,  how  little  I  spare  myself, — 
if  you  are  frightened  at  the  uncertainty  of  the 
future,  and  estrangement  and  solitude  and  the 
censure  of  men,  if  you  cannot  rely  on  yourself, 
in  fact,  tell  me  so  openly  and  without  delay, 
and  I  will  go  away  ;  I  shall  go  with  a  broken 
heart,  but  I  shall  bless  you  for  your  truth- 
fulness. But  if  you  really,  my  beautiful,  radiant 
queen,  love  a  man  so  petty,  so  obscure  as  I,  and 
are  really  ready  to  share  his  fate, — well,  then, 
give  me  your  hand,  and  let  us  set  off  together 
on  our  difficult  way !  Only  understand,  my 
decision  is  unchanging ;  either  all  or  nothing. 

268 


SMOKE 

It's  unreasonable  .  .  .  but  I  could  not  do 
otherwise — I  cannot,  Irina !  I  love  you  too 
much. — Yours,  G.  L.' 

Litvinov  did  not  much  like  this  letter  him- 
self; it  did  not  quite  truly  and  exactly  express 
what  he  wanted  to  say  ;  it  was  full  of  awkward 
expressions,  high  flown  or  bookish,  and  doubt- 
less it  was  not  better  than  many  of  the  other 
letters  he  had  torn  up ;  but  it  was  the  last,  the 
chief  point  was  thoroughly  stated  anyway,  and 
harassed,  and  worn  out,  Litvinov  did  not  feel 
capable  of  dragging  anything  else  out  of  his 
head.  Besides  he  did  not  possess  the  faculty 
of  putting  his  thought  into  literary  form,  and 
like  all  people  with  whom  it  is  not  habitual,  he 
took  great  trouble  over  the  style.  His  first 
letter  was  probably  the  best ;  it  came  warmer 
from  the  heart.  However  that  might  be, 
Litvinov  despatched  his  missive  to  Irina. 

She  replied  in  a  brief  note  : 

*  Come  to  me  to-day,'  she  wrote  to  him  :  *  he 
has  gone  away  for  the  whole  day.  Your  letter 
has  greatly  disturbed  me.  I  keep  thinking, 
thinking  .  .  .  and  my  head  is  in  a  whirl.  I 
am  very  wretched,  but  you  love  me,  and  I  am 
happy.     Come.     Yours,  I.' 

She  was  sitting  in  her  boudoir  when  Litvinov 
went  in.     He  was  conducted  there  by  the  same 

269 


SMOKE 

little  girl  of  thirteen  who  on  the  previous  day 
had  watched  for  him  on  the  stairs.  On  the 
table  before  Irina  was  standing  an  open,  semi- 
circular, cardboard  box  of  lace :  she  was  care- 
lessly turning  over  the  lace  with  one  hand,  in 
the  other  she  was  holding  Litvinov's  letter.  She 
had  only  just  left  off  crying ;  her  eyelashes  were 
wet,  and  her  eyelids  swollen  ;  on  her  cheeks 
could  be  seen  the  traces  of  undried  tears  not 
wiped  away.  Litvinov  stood  still  in  the  door- 
way ;  she  did  not  notice  his  entrance. 

*  You  are  crying  ?    he  said  wonderingly. 
She  started,  passed  her   hand  over  her  hair 

and  smiled. 

*  Why  are  you  crying  ?  '  repeated  Litvinov. 
She  pointed  in  silence  to  the  letter.  *  So  you 
were  .  .  .  over  that,'  he  articulated  haltingly. 

*  Come  here,  sit  down,'  she  said,  '  give  me 
your  hand.  Well,  yes,  I  was  crying  .  .  .  what 
are  you  surprised  at?  Is  that  nothing?'  she 
pointed  again  to  the  letter. 

Litvinov  sat  down. 

*  I  know  it's  not  easy,  Irina,  I  tell  you  so  in- 
deed in  my  letter  ...  I  understand  your  posi- 
tion. But  if  you  believe  in  the  value  of  your  love 
for  me,  if  my  words  have  convinced  you,  you 
ought,  too,  to  understand  what  I  feel  now  at  the 
sight  of  your  tears.  I  have  come  here,  like  a 
man  on  his  trial,  and  I  await  what  is  to  be  my 

270 


SMOKE 

sentence  ?  Death  or  life  ?  Your  answer  decides 
everything.  Only  don't  look  at  me  with  those 
eyes.  .  .  .  They  remind  me  of  the  eyes  I  saw  in 
old  days  in  Moscow.' 

Irina  flushed  at  once,  and  turned  away,  as 
though  herself  conscious  of  something  evil  in 
her  gaze. 

*  Why  do  you  say  that,  Grigory  ?  For  shame  ! 
You  want  to  know  my  answer  ...  do  you 
mean  to  say  you  can  doubt  it?  You  are 
troubled  by  my  tears  .  .  .  but  you  don't  under- 
stand them.  Your  letter,  dearest,  has  set  me 
thinking.  Here  you  write  that  my  love  has 
replaced  everything  for  you,  that  even  your 
former  studies  can  never  now  be  put  into  prac- 
tice ;  but  I  ask  myself,  can  a  man  live  for  love 
alone  ?  Won't  it  weary  him  at  last,  won't  he 
want  an  active  career,  and  won't  he  cast  the 
blame  on  what  drew  him  away  from  active  life  ? 
That's  the  thought  that  dismays  me,  that's 
what  I  am  afraid  of,  and  not  what  you  imagine.' 

Litvinov  looked  intently  at  Irina,  and  Irina 
intently  looked  at  him,  as  though  each  would 
penetrate  deeper  and  further  into  the  soul  of 
the  other,  deeper  and  further  than  word  can 
reach,  or  word  betray. 

*  You  are  wrong  in  being  afraid  of  that,'  began 
Litvinov.  '  I  must  have  expressed  myself  badly. 
Weariness  ?  Inactivity  ?  With  the  new  impetus 

271 


SMOKE 

your  love  will  give  me  ?     O  Irina,  in  your  love 
there 's  a  whole  world  for  me,  and   I  can't  yet 
foresee  myself  what  may  develop  from  it.' 
Irina  grew  thoughtful. 

*  Where  are  we  going  ?  '  she  whispered. 

*  Where  ?    We  will  talk  of  that  later.    But,  of 
course, then  . . .  then  you  agree?  you  agree, Irina?' 

She  looked  at  him.  '  And  you  will  be  happy  ? ' 
*0  Irina!' 

*  You  will  regret  nothing  ?     Never  ?  ' 

She  bent  over  the  cardboard  box,  and  again 
began  looking  over  the  lace  in  it. 

*  Don't  be  angry  with  me,  dear  one,  for 
attending  to  this  trash  at  such  a  moment.  .  .  . 
I  am  obliged  to  go  to  a  ball  at  a  certain  lady's, 
these  bits  of  finery  have  been  sent  me,  and 
I  must  choose  to-day.  Ah !  I  am  awfully 
wretched  ! '  she  cried  suddenly,  and  she  laid  her 
face  down  on  the  edge  of  the  box.  Tears  began 
falling  again  from  her  eyes.  .  .  .  She  turned 
away  ;  the  tears  might  spoil  the  lace. 

'  Irina,  you  are  crying  again,'  Litvinov  began 
uneasily. 

*  Ah,  yes,  again,'  Irina  interposed  hurriedly. 
*  O  Grigory,  don't  torture  me,  don't  torture 
yourself !  .  .  .  Let  us  be  free  people !  What 
does  it  matter  if  I  do  cry  !  And  indeed  do  I 
know  myself  why  my  tears  are  flowing  ?  You 
know,  you  have  heard  my  decision,  you  believe 

272 


SMOKE 

it  will  not  be  changed.  That  I  agree  to  . 
What  was  it  you  said  ?  ...  to  all  or  nothing 
.  .  .  what  more  would  you  have }  Let  us  be 
free  !  Why  these  mutual  chains  ?  We  are  alone 
together  now,  you  love  me.  I  love  you  ;  is  it 
possible  we  have  nothing  to  do  but  wringing  our 
thoughts  out  of  each  other  ?  Look  at  me,  I 
don't  want  to  talk  about  myself,  I  have  never 
by  one  word  hinted  that  for  me  perhaps  it  was 
not  so  easy  to  set  at  nought  my  duty  as  a  wife 
.  .  .  and,  of  course,  I  don't  deceive  myself,  I 
know  I  am  a  criminal,  and  that  /le  has  a  right 
to  kill  me.  Well,  what  of  it  ?  Let  us  be  free, 
I  say.     To-day  is  ours — a  life-time 's  ours.' 

She  got  up  from  the  arm-chair  and  looked  at 
Litvinov  with  her  head  thrown  back,  faintly  smil- 
ing and  moving  her  eyebrows,  while  with  one 
arm  bare  to  the  elbow  she  pushed  back  from  her 
face  a  long  tress  on  which  a  few  tears  glistened. 
A  rich  scarf  slipped  from  the  table  and  fell  on 
the  floor  at  Irina's  feet.  She  trampled  contemptu- 
ously on  it.  '  Or  don't  you  like  me,  to-day  ? 
Have  I  grown  ugly  since  yesterday  ?  Tell  me, 
have  you  often  seen  a  prettier  hand  ?  And  this 
hair  ?     Tell  me,  do  you  love  me  ? ' 

She  clasped  him  in  both  arms,  held  his  head 
close  to  her  bosom,  her  comb  fell  out  with  a 
ringing  sound,  and  her  falling  hair  wrapped 
him  in  a  soft  flood  of  fragrance. 

273  S 


XXIV 

LiTVINOV  walked  up  and  down  his  room  in  the 
hotel,  his  head  bowed  in  thought.  He  had  now 
to  pass  from  theory  to  practice,  to  devise  ways 
and  means  for  flight,  for  moving  to  unknown 
countries.  .  .  .  But,  strange  to  say,  he  was  not 
pondering  so  much  upon  ways  and  means  as 
upon  whether  actually,  beyond  doubt,  the 
decision  had  been  reached  on  which  he  had  so 
obstinately  insisted  ?  Had  the  ultimate,  irre- 
vocable word  been  uttered?  But  Irina  to  be 
sure  had  said  to  him  at  parting,  *  Act,  act,  and 
when  every  thing  is  ready,  only  let  me  know.' 
That  was  final !  Away  with  all  doubts.  .  .  .  He 
must  proceed  to  action.  And  Litvinov  proceeded 
— in  the  meantime — to  calculation.  Money 
first  of  all.  Litvinov  had,  he  found,  in  ready 
money  one  thousand  three  hundred  and  twenty- 
eight  guldens,  in  French  money,  two  thousand 
eight  hundred  and  fifty-five  francs ;  the  sum 
was  trifling,  but  it  was  enough  for  the  first 
necessities,  and  then  he  must  at  once  write  to 

274 


SMOKE 

his  father  to  send  him  all  he  could  ;  he  would 
have  to  sell  the  forest  part  of  the  land.  But 
on  what  pretext  ?  .  .  .  Well,  a  pretext  would 
be  found.  Irina  had  spoken,  it 's  true,  of  her 
bijoux,  but  that  must  not  be  taken  into  his 
reckoning ;  that,  who  knows,  might  come  in  for 
a  rainy  day.  He  had  besides  a  good  Geneva 
watchjfor  which  he  might  get  .  .  .  well,  say,  four 
hundred  francs.  Litvinov  went  to  a  banker's, 
and  with  much  circumlocution  introduced  the 
question  whether  it  was  possible,  in  case  of 
need,  to  borrow  money ;  but  bankers  at  Baden 
are  wary  old  foxes,  and  in  response  to  such  cir- 
cumlocutions they  promptly  assume  a  drooping 
and  blighted  air,  for  all  the  world  like  a  wild 
flower  whose  stalk  has  been  severed  by  the 
scythe ;  some  indeed  laugh  outright  in  your 
face,  as  though  appreciating  an  innocent  joke 
on  your  part.  Litvinov,  to  his  shame,  even 
tried  his  luck  at  roulette,  even,  oh  ignominy  ! 
put  a  thaler  on  the  number  thirty,  correspond- 
ing with  his  own  age.  He  did  this  with  a  view 
to  augmenting  and  rounding  off  his  capital ; 
and  if  he  did  not  augment  it,  he  certainly 
did  round  off  his  capital  by  losing  the  odd 
twenty-eight  guldens.  There  was  a  second 
question,  also  not  an  unimportant  one  ;  that 
was  the  passport.  But  for  a  woman  a  passport 
is  not  quite  so  obligatory,  and  there  are  countries 

275 


SMOKE 

where  it  is  not  required  at  all,  Belgium,  for 
instance,  and  England  ;  besides,  one  might  even 
get  some  other  passport,  not  Russian.  Litvinov 
pondered  very  seriously  on  all  this  ;  his  decision 
was  firm,  absolutely  unwavering,  and  yet  all  the 
time  against  his  will,  overriding  his  will,  some- 
thing not  serious,  almost  humorous  came  in, 
filtered  through  his  musings,  as  though  the  very 
enterprise  were  a  comic  business,  and  no  one 
ever  did  elope  with  any  one  in  reality,  but  only 
in  plays  and  novels,  and  perhaps  somewhere 
in  the  provinces,  in  some  of  those  remote 
districts,  where,  according  to  the  statements  of 
travellers,  people  are  literally  sick  continually 
from  ennui.  At  that  point  Litvinov  recalled 
how  an  acquaintance  of  his,  a  retired  cornet, 
Batsov,  had  eloped  with  a  merchant's  daughter 
in  a  staging  sledge  with  bells  and  three  horses, 
having  as  a  preliminary  measure  made  the 
parents  drunk,  and  adopted  the  same  pre- 
caution as  well  with  the  bride,  and  how,  as  it 
afterwards  turned  out,  he  was  outwitted  and 
within  an  ace  of  a  thrashing  into  the  bargain. 
Litvinov  felt  exceedingly  irritated  with  himself 
for  such  inappropriate  reminiscences,  and  then 
with  the  recollection  of  Tatyana,  her  sudden  de- 
parture, all  that  grief  and  suffering  and  shame, 
he  felt  only  too  acutely  that  the  affair  he  was 
arranging  was  deadly  earnest,  and  how  right  he 

276 


SMOKE 

had  been  when  he  had  told  Irina  that  his  honour 
even  left  no  other  course  open.  .  .  .  And  again 
at  the  mere  name  something  of  flame  turned 
with  sweet  ache  about  his  heart  and  died  away 
again. 

The  tramp  of  horses'  hoofs  sounded  behind 
him.  .  .  .  He  moved  aside.  .  .  .  Irina  overtook 
him  on  horseback  ;  beside  her  rode  the  stout 
general.  She  recognised  Litvinov,  nodded  to 
him,  and  lashing  her  horse  with  a  sidestroke  of 
her  whip,  she  put  him  into  a  gallop,  and  suddenly- 
dashed  away  at  headlong  speed.  Her  dark 
veil  fluttered  in  the  wind.  .  .  . 
)  '  Pas  si  vite  !  Novi  de  Dieu  !  pas  si  vite  ! ' 
cried  the  general,  and  he  too  galloped  after  her. 


277 


XXV 

The  next  morning  Litvinov  had  only  just  come 
home  from  seeing  the  banker,  with  whom  he 
had  had  another  conversation  on  the  playful  in- 
stability of  our  exchange,  and  the  best  means 
of  sending  money  abroad,  when  the  hotel  porter 
handed  him  a  letter.  He  recognised  Irina's 
handwriting,  and  without  breaking  the  seal — a 
presentiment  of  evil,  Heaven  knows  why,  was 
astir  in  him — he  went  into  his  room.  This  was 
what  he  read  (the  letter  was  in  French)  : 

*  My  dear  one,  I  have  been  thinking  all 
night  of  your  plan.  ...  I  am  not  going  to 
shuffle  with  you.  You  have  been  open  with 
me,  and  I  will  be  open  with  you  ;  I  cannot 
run  away  with  you,  I  have  not  the  strength  to 
do  it.  I  feel  how  I  am  wronging  you ;  my 
second  sin  is  greater  than  the  first,  I  despise 
myself,  my  cowardice,  I  cover  myself  with 
reproaches,  but  I  cannot  change  myself.  In 
vain  I  tell  myself  that  I  have  destroyed  your 
happiness,  that  you  have  the  right  now  to  re- 

278 


SMOKE 

gard  me  as  a  frivolous  flirt,  that  I  myself  drew 
you  on,  that  I  have  given  you  solemn  promises. 
...  I  am  full  of  horror,  of  hatred  for  myself, 
but  I  can't  do  otherwise,  I  can't,  I  can't.  I 
don't  want  to  justify  myself,  I  won't  tell  you  I 
was  carried  away  myself  ...  all  that 's  of  no 
importance  ;  but  I  want  to  tell  you,  and  to  say 
it  again  and  yet  again,  I  am  yours,  yours  for  ever, 
do  with  me  as  you  will  when  you  will,  free  from  all 
obligation,  from  all  responsibility  !  I  am  yours. 
.  .  .  But  run  away,  throw  up  everything  .  .  . 
no !  no !  no !  I  besought  you  to  save  me,  I 
hoped  to  wipe  out  everything,  to  burn  up  the 
past  as  in  a  fire  .  .  .  but  I  see  there  is  no 
salvation  for  me ;  I  see  the  poison  has  gone 
too  deeply  into  me  ;  I  see  one  cannot  breathe 
this  atmosphere  for  years  with  impunity.  I 
have  long  hesitated  whether  to  write  you  this 
letter,  I  dread  to  think  what  decision  you  may 
come  to,  I  trust  only  to  your  love  for  me.  But 
I  felt  it  would  be  dishonest  on  my  part  to  hide 
the  truth  from  you — especially  as  perhaps  you 
have  already  begun  to  take  the  first  steps  for 
carrying  out  our  project.  Ah  !  it  was  lovely 
but  impracticable.  O  my  dear  one,  think  me 
a  weak,  worthless  woman,  despise,  but  don't 
abandon  me,  don't  abandon  your  Irina  !  .  .  . 
To  leave  this  life  I  have  not  the  courage,  but 
live  it  without  you  I  cannot  either.     We  soon 

279 


SMOKE 

go  back  to  Petersburg,  come  there,  live  there, 
we  will  find  occupation  for  you,  your  labours  in 
the  past  shall  not  be  thrown  away,  you  shall 
find  good  use  for  them  .  .  .  only  live  near  me, 
only  love  me ;  such  as  I  am,  with  all  my 
weaknesses  and  my  vices,  and  believe  me,  no 
heart  will  ever  be  so  tenderly  devoted  to  you  as 
the  heart  of  your  Irina.  Come  soon  to  me,  I 
shall  not  have  an  instant's  peace  until  I  see 
you. — Yours,  yours,  yours,  L* 

The  blood  beat  like  a  sledge-hammer  in 
Litvinov's  head,  then  slowly  and  painfully  sank 
to  his  heart,  and  was  chill  as  a  stone  in  it.  He 
read  through  Irina's  letter,  and  just  as  on  that 
day  at  Moscow  he  fell  in  exhaustion  on  the 
sofa,  and  stayed  there  motionless.  A  dark 
abyss  seemed  suddenly  to  have  opened  on  all 
sides  of  him,  and  he  stared  into  this  darkness 
in  senseless  despair.  And  so  again,  again 
deceit,  no,  worse  than  deceit,  lying  and  base- 
ness. .  .  .  And  life  shattered,  everything  torn 
up  by  its  roots  utterly,  and  the  sole  thing  which 
he  could  cling  to — the  last  prop  in  fragments 
too  !  '  Come  after  us  to  Petersburg,'  he  re- 
peated with  a  bitter  inward  laugh,  '  we  will  find 
you  occupation.  .  .  .  Find  me  a  place  as  a  head 
clerk,  eh  ?  and  who  are  we  ?  Here  there 's  a  hint 
of  her  past.     Here  we  have  the  secret,  hideous 

280 


SMOKE 

something  I  know  nothing  of,  but  which  she  has 
been  trying  to  wipe  out,  to  burn  as  in  a  fire. 
Here  we  have  that  world  of  intrigues,  of  secret 
relations,  of  shameful  stories  of  Byelskys  and 

Dolskys And  what  a  future,  what  a  lovely  part 

awaiting  me  !  To  live  close  to  her,  visit  her,  share 
with  her  the  morbid  melancholy  of  the  lady  of 
fashion  who  is  sick  and  weary  of  the  world, 
but  can't  live  outside  its  circle,  be  the  friend  of 
the  house  of  course,  of  his  Excellency  .  .  .  until 
.  .  .  until  the  whim  changes  and  the  plebeian 
lover  loses  his  piquancy,  and  is  replaced  by 
that  fat  general  or  Mr.  Finikov — that 's  possible 
and  pleasant,  and  I  dare  say  useful.  .  .  .  She 
talks  of  a  good  use  for  my  talents?  .  .  .  but  the 
other  project 's  impracticable,  impracticable. 
...  In  Litvinov's  soul  rose,  like  sudden  gusts 
of  wind  before  a  storm,  momentary  impulses 
of  fury.  .  .  .  Every  expression  in  Irina's  letter 
roused  his  indignation,  her  very  assertions  of 
her  unchanging  feelings  affronted  him.  '  She 
can't  let  it  go  like  that,'  he  cried  at  last,  '  I  won't 
allow  her  to  play  with  my  life  so  merci- 
lessly.' 

Litvinov  jumped  up,  snatched  his  hat.  But 
what  was  he  to  do  ?  Run  to  her  ?  Answer 
her  letter?  He  stopped  short,  and  his  hands 
fell. 

*  Yes  ;  what  was  to  be  done  ? ' 

281 


SMOKE 

Had  he  not  himself  put  this  fatal  choice  to 
her  ?  It  had  not  turned  out  as  he  had  wished 
.  .  .  there  was  that  risk  about  every  choice. 
She  had  changed  her  mind,  it  was  true ;  she 
herself  had  declared  at  first  that  she  would 
throw  up  everything  and  follow  him  ;  that  was 
true  too ;  but  she  did  not  deny  her  guilt,  she 
called  herself  a  weak  woman  ;  she  did  not  want 
to  deceive  him,  she  had  been  deceived  in  her- 
self .  .  .  What  answer  could  be  made  to  that  ? 
At  any  rate  she  was  not  hypocritical,  she  was  not 
deceiving  him  .  .  .  she  was  open,  remorselessly 
open.  There  was  nothing  forced  her  to  speak 
out,  nothing  to  prevent  her  from  soothing  him 
with  promises,  putting  things  off,  and  keeping 
it  all  in  uncertainty  till  her  departure  .  .  .  till 
her  departure  with  her  husband  for  Italy? 
But  she  had  ruined  his  life,  ruined  two  lives. 
.  .  .  What  of  that  ? 

But  as  regards  Tatyana,  she  was  not  guilty  ; 
the  guilt  was  his,  his,  Litvinov's  alone,  and  he 
had  no  right  to  shake  off  the  responsibility  his 
own  sin  had  laid  with  iron  yoke  upon  him.  .  .  . 
All  this  was  so ;  but  what  was  left  him  to  do 
now? 

Again  he  flung  himself  on  the  sofa  and 
again  in  gloom,  darkly,  dimly,  without  trace, 
with  devouring  swiftness,  the  minutes  raced 
past  ... 

282 


SMOKE 

*  And  why  not  obey  her  ?  *  flashed  through  his 
brain.  *  She  loves  me,  she  is  mine,  and  in  our 
very  yearning  towards  each  other,  in  this  passion, 
which  after  so  many  years  has  burst  upon  us, 
and  forced  its  way  out  with  such  violence,  is 
there  not  something  inevitable,  irresistible,  like 
a  law  of  nature  ?  Live  in  Petersburg  .  .  .  and 
shall  I  be  the  first  to  be  put  in  such  a  position  ? 
And  how  could  we  be  in  safety  together  ?  .  .  .' 

And  he  fell  to  musing,  and  Irina's  shape,  in 
the  guise  in  which  it  was  imprinted  for  ever  in 
his  late  memories,  softly  rose  before  him.  .  .  . 
But  not  for  long.  .  .  .  He  mastered  himself, 
and  with  a  fresh  outburst  of  indignation  drove 
away  from  him  both  those  memories  and  that 
seductive  image. 

*  You  give  me  to  drink  from  that  golden  cup,' 
he  cried,  '  but  there  is  poison  in  the  draught, 
and  your  white  wings  are  besmirched  with  mire. 
.  .  .  Away !  Remain  here  with  you  after  the 
way  I  ...  I  drove  away  my  betrothed  ...  a 
deed  of  infamy,  of  infamy  !  *  He  wrung  his 
hands  with  anguish,  and  another  face  with  the 
stamp  of  suffering  on  its  still  features,  with 
dumb  reproach  in  its  farewell  eyes,  rose  from 
the  depths.  .  .  . 

And  for  a  long  time  Litvinov  was  in  this 
agony  still ;  for  a  long  time,  his  tortured  thought, 
like  a  man  fever-stricken,  tossed  from  side  to 

283 


SMOKE 

side.  .  .  .  He  grew  calm  at  last ;  at  last  he 
came  to  a  decision.  From  the  very  first  in- 
stant he  had  a  presentiment  of  this  decision  ; 
...  it  had  appeared  to  him  at  first  like  a 
distant,  hardly  perceptible  point  in  the  midst  of 
the  darkness  and  turmoil  of  his  inward  conflict ; 
then  it  had  begun  to  move  nearer  and  nearer, 
till  it  ended  by  cutting  with  icy  edge  into  his 
heart. 

Litvinov  once  more  dragged  his  box  out  of 
the  corner,  once  more  he  packed  all  his  things, 
without  haste,  even  with  a  kind  of  stupid  care- 
fulness, rang  for  the  waiter,  paid  his  bill,  and 
despatched  to  Irina  a  note  in  Russian  to  the 
following  purport : 

'  I  don't  know  whether  you  are  doing  me  a 
greater  wrong  now  than  then  ;  but  I  know  this 
present  blow  is  infinitely  heavier.  ...  It  is  the 
end.  You  tell  me,  "  I  cannot "  ;  and  I  repeat 
to  you,  "  I  cannot  .  .  ."  do  what  you  want.  I 
cannot  and  I  don't  want  to.  Don't  answer  me. 
You  are  not  capable  of  giving  me  the  only 
answer  I  would  accept.  I  am  going  away 
to-morrow  early  by  the  first  train.  Good-bye, 
may  you  be  happy  !  We  shall  in  all  probability 
not  see  each  other  again.' 

Till  night-time  Litvinov  did  not  leave  his  ^ 
room  ;  God  knows  whether  he  was  expecting  1 
anything.     About  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening 

284 


SMOKE 

a  lady  in  a  black  mantle  with  a  veil  on  her 
face  twice  approached  the  steps  of  his  hotel. 
Moving  a  little  aside  and  gazing  far  away 
into  the  distance,  she  suddenly  made  a  resolute 
gesture  with  her  hand,  and  for  the  third  time 
went  towards  the  steps.  .  .  . 

'  Where  are  you  going,  Irina  Pavlovna?'  she 
heard  a  voice  utter  with  effort  behind  her. 

She  turned  with  nervous  swiftness.  .  .  . 
Potugin  ran  up  to  her. 

She  stopped  short,  thought  a  moment,  and 
fairly  flung  herself  towards  him,  took  his  arm, 
and  drew  him  away. 

*  Take  me  away,  take  me  away,'  she  repeated 
breathlessly. 

'What  is  it,  Irina  Pavlovna?'  he  muttered  in 
bewilderment. 

'  Take  me  away,'  she  reiterated  with  redoubled 
force,  '  if  you  don't  want  me  to  remain  for  ever 
.  .  .  there.' 

Potugin  bent  his  head  submissively,  and  hur- 
riedly they  went  away  together. 

The  following  morning  early  Litvinov  was 
perfectly  ready  for  his  journey — into  his  room 
walked  .  .  .  Potugin. 

He  went  up  to  him  in  silence,  and  in  silence 
shook  his  hand.  Litvinov,  too,  said  nothing. 
Both  of  them  wore  long  faces,  and  both  vainly 
tried  to  smile. 

285 


SMOKE 

*  I  came  to  wish  you  a  good  journey,'  Potugin 
brought  out  at  last. 

*  And  how  did  you  know  I  was  going  to-day?* 
asked  Litvinov. 

Potugin  looked  on  the  floor  around  him  .  ,  , 
'  I  became  aware  of  it .  .  as  you  see.  Our  last 
conversation  took  in  the  end  such  a  strange 
turn  .  .  I  did  not  want  to  part  from  you 
without  expressing  my  sincere  good  feeling 
for  you.' 

'You  have  good  feeling  for  me  now  .  .  . 
when  I  am  going  away  ? ' 

Potugin  looked  mournfully  at  Litvinov.  *  Ah, 
Grigory  Mihalitch,  Grigory  Mihalitch/  he  began 
with  a  short  sigh,  '  it 's  no  time  for  that  with  us 
now,  no  time  for  delicacy  or  fencing.  You  don't, 
so  far  as  I  have  been  able  to  perceive,  take  much 
interest  in  our  national  literature,  and  so,  per- 
haps, you  have  no  clear  conception  of  Vaska 
Buslaev  ?  ' 

*  Of  whom  ? ' 

*  Of  Vaska  Buslaev,  the  hero  of  Novgorod  .  .  . 
in  Kirsch-Danilov's  collection.' 

'What  Buslaev?'  said  Litvinov,  somewhat 
puzzled  by  the  unexpected  turn  of  the  conver- 
sation.    '  I  don't  know.' 

'  Well,  never  mind.  I  only  wanted  to  draw 
your  attention  to  something.  Vaska  Buslaev, 
after  he  had  taken  away  his  Novgorodians  on  a 

286 


SMOKE 

pilgrimage  to  Jerusalem,  and  there,  to  their 
horror,  bathed  all  naked  in  the  holy  river 
Jordan,  for  he  believed  not  "  in  omen  nor  in 
dream,  nor  in  the  flight  of  birds,"  this  logical 
Vaska  Buslaev  climbed  up  Mount  Tabor, 
and  on  the  top  of  this  mountain  there  lies  a 
great  stone,  over  which  men  of  every  kind  have 
tried  in  vain  to  jump.  .  .  .  Vaska  too  ventured 
to  try  his  luck.  And  he  chanced  upon  a  dead 
head,  a  human  skull  in  his  road ;  he  kicked  it 
away  with  his  foot.  So  the  skull  said  to  him  ; 
"  Why  do  you  kick  me  ?  I  knew  how  to  live, 
and  I  know  how  to  roll  in  the  dust — and  it  will 
be  the  same  with  you."  And  in  fact,  Vaska 
jumps  over  the  stone,  and  he  did  quite  clear  it, 
but  he  caught  his  heel  and  broke  his  skull. 
And  in  this  place,  I  must  by  the  way  observe 
that  it  wouldn't  be  amiss  for  our  friends,  the 
Slavophils,  who  are  so  fond  of  kicking  dead 
heads  and  decaying  nationalities  underfoot  to 
ponder  over  that  legend.' 

*  But  what  does  all  that  mean  ? '  Litvinov 
interposed  impatiently  at  last.  '  Excuse  me, 
it 's  time  for  me  .  .  .' 

*  Why,  this,'  answered  Potugin,  and  his  eyes 
beamed  with  such  affectionate  warmth  as  Lit- 
vinov had  not  even  expected  of  him,  *  this,  that 
you  do  not  spurn  a  dead  human  head,  and  for 
your   goodness,  perhaps  you  may  succeed  in 

287 


■4 


SMOKE 

leaping  over  the  fatal  stone.  I  won't  keep 
you  any  longer,  only  let  me  embrace  you  at 
parting.' 

'  I  'm  not  going  to  try  to  leap  over  it  even/ 
Litvinov  declared,  kissing  Potugin  three  times, 
and  the  bitter  sensations  filling  his  soul  were 
replaced  for  an  instant  by  pity  for  the  poor 
lonely  creature. 

*  But  I  must  go,  I  must  go.  .  .  .*  he  moved 
about  the  room. 

'  Can  I  carry  anything  for  you  ? '  Potugin 
proffered  his  services. 

'  No,  thank  you,  don't  trouble,  I  can  man- 
age. .  .  .' 

He  put  on  his  cap,  took  up  his  bag.  '  So 
you  say,'  he  queried,  stopping  in  the  doorway, 
*  you  have  seen  her  ?  ' 

*  Yes,  I  Ve  seen  her.' 

'  Well  .  .  .  tell  me  about  her.' 

Potugin  was  silent  a  moment.  *She  expected 
you  yesterday  .  .  .  and  to-day  she  will  expect 
you.' 

'Ah!  Well,  tell  her  .  .  .  No,  there's  no 
need,  no  need  of  anything.  Good-bye  .  .  . 
Good-bye ! ' 

'Good-bye,  Grigory  Mihalitch.  .  .  ,  Let  me 
say  one  word  more  to  you.  You  still  have  time 
to  listen  to  me  ;  there's  more  than  half  an  hour 
before  the  train  starts.     You  are  returning  to 

288 


SMOKE 

Russia  .  ,  .  There  you  will  ...  in  time  .  .  . 
get  to  work  .  .  .  Allow  an  old  chatterbox — for, 
alas,  I  am  a  chatterbox,  and  nothing  more — to 
give  you  advice  for  your  journey.  Every  time  it 
is  your  lot  to  undertake  any  piece  of  work,  ask 
yourself:  Are  you  serving  the  cause  of  civilisa- 
tion, in  the  true  and  strict  sense  of  the  word ; 
are  you  promoting  one  of  the  ideals  of  civilisa- 
tion ;  have  your  labours  that  educating,  Euro- 
peanising  character  which  alone  is  beneficial  and 
profitable  in  our  day  among  us  ?  If  it  is  so,  go 
boldly  forward,  you  are  on  the  right  path,  and 
your  work  is  a  blessing !  Thank  God  for  it ! 
You  are  not  alone  now.  You  will  not  be  a 
"  sower  in  the  desert "  ;  there  are  plenty  of 
workers  .  .  .  pioneers  .  .  .  even  among  us  now 
.  .  .  But  you  have  no  ears  for  this  now.  Good- 
bye, don't  forget  me  ! ' 

Litvinov  descended  the  staircase  at  a  run, 
flung  himself  into  a  carriage,  and  drove  to  the 
station,  not  once  looking  round  at  the  town 
where  so  much  of  his  personal  life  was  left 
behind.  He  abandoned  himself,  as  it  were,  to 
the  tide ;  it  snatched  him  up  and  bore  him 
along,  and  he  firmly  resolved  not  to  struggle 
against  it  .  .  .  all  other  exercise  of  independent 
will  he  renounced. 

He  was  just  taking  his  seat  in  the  railway 
carriage. 

289  T 


SMOKE 

'  Grigory  Mihalitch  .  .  .  Grigory  .  .  .'  he  heard 
a  supplicating  whisper  behind  him. 

He  started  .  .  .  Could  it  be  Irina?  Yes  ;  it 
was  she.  Wrapped  in  her  maid's  shawl,  a 
travelling  hat  on  her  dishevelled  hair,  she  was 
standing  on  the  platform,  and  gazing  at  him 
with  worn  and  weary  eyes. 

*  Come  back,  come  back,  I  have  come  for 
you,'  those  eyes  were  saying.  And  what,  what 
were  they  not  promising  ?  She  did  not  move, 
she  had  not  power  to  add  a  word  ;  everything 
about  her,  even  the  disorder  of  her  dress,  every- 
thing seeemed  entreating  forgiveness  .  .  . 

Litvinov  was  almost  beaten,  scarcely  could 
he  keep  from  rushing  to  her  .  .  .  But  the  tide 
to  which  he  had  surrendered  himself  reasserted 
itself.  .  .  .  He  jumped  into  the  carriage,  and 
turning  round,  he  motioned  Irina  to  a  place 
beside  him.  She  understood  him.  There  was 
still  time.  One  step,  one  movement,  and  two 
lives  made  one  for  ever  would  have  been  hurried 
away  into  the  uncertain  distance.  .  .  .  While 
she  wavered,  a  loud  whistle  sounded  and  the 
train  moved  off. 

Litvinov  sank  back,  while  Irina  moved 
staggering  to  a  seat,  and  fell  on  it,  to  the  im- 
mense astonishment  of  a  supernumerary  diplo- 
matic official  who  chanced  to  be  lounging  about 
the  railway  station.    He  was  slightly  acquainted 

290 


SMOKE 

with  Irina,  and  greatly  admired  her,  and  seeing 
that  she  lay  as  though  overcome  by  faintness, 
he  imagined  that  she  had  '  ime  attaqtie  de  nerfsl 
and  therefore  deemed  it  his  duty,  the  duty  dun 
galant  chevalier,  to  go  to  her  assistance.  But 
his  astonishment  assumed  far  greater  propor- 
tions when,  at  the  first  word  addressed  to  her, 
she  suddenly  got  up,  repulsed  his  proffered 
arm,  and  hurrying  out  into  the  street,  had  in  a 
few  instants  vanished  in  the  milky  vapour  of 
fog,  so  characteristic  of  the  climate  of  the  Black 
Forest  in  the  early  days  of  autumn. 


291 


XXVI 

We  happened  once  to  go  into  the  hut  of  a 
peasant-woman  who  had  just  lost  her  only, 
passionately  loved  son,  and  to  our  considerable 
astonishment  we  found  her  perfectly  calm, 
almost  cheerful.  *  Let  her  be,'  said  her  husband, 
to  whom  probably  our  astonishment  was  ap- 
parent, '  she  is  gone  numb  now.'  And  Litvinov 
had  in  the  same  way  *  gone  numb.'  The  same 
sort  of  calm  came  over  him  during  the  first 
few  hours  of  the  journey.  Utterly  crushed, 
hopelessly  wretched  as  he  was,  still  he  was  at 
rest,  at  rest  after  the  agonies  and  sufferings  of 
the  last  few  weeks,  after  all  the  blows  which  had 
fallen  one  after  another  upon  his  head.  They 
had  been  the  more  shattering  for  him  that  he 
was  little  fitted  by  nature  for  such  tempests. 
Now  he  really  hoped  for  nothing,  and  tried  not 
to  remember,  above  all  not  to  remember.  He 
was  going  to  Russia  ...  he  had  to  go  some- 
where ;  but  he  was  making  no  kind  of  plans 
regarding  his   own    personality.      He   did    not 

2g2 


SMOKE 

recognise  himself,  he  did  not  comprehend  his 
own  actions,  he  had  positively  lost  his  real 
identity,  and,  in  fact,  he  took  very  little  inter- 
est in  his  own  identity.  Sometimes  it  seemed 
to  him  that  he  was  taking  his  own  corpse 
home,  and  only  the  bitter  spasms  of  irreme- 
diable spiritual  pain  passing  over  him  from  time 
to  time  brought  him  back  to  a  sense  of  still 
being  alive.  At  times  it  struck  him  as  incom- 
prehensible that  a  man — a  man  ! — could  let  a 
woman,  let  love,  have  such  power  over  him  .  .  . 
'  Ignominious  weakness ! '  he  muttered,  and 
shook  back  his  cloak,  and  sat  up  more  squarely; 
as  though  to  say,  the  past  is  over,  let's  begin 
fresh  ...  a  moment,  and  he  could  only  smile 
bitterly  and  wonder  at  himself  He  fell  to 
looking  out  of  the  window.  It  was  grey  and 
damp  ;  there  was  no  rain,  but  the  fog  still  hung 
about ;  and  low  clouds  trailed  across  the  sky 
The  wind  blew  facing  the  train  ;  whitish  clouds 
of  steam,  some  singly,  others  mingled  with  other 
darker  clouds  of  smoke,  whirled  in  endless  file 
past  the  window  at  which  Litvinov  was  sitting. 
He  began  to  watch  this  steam,  this  smoke. 
Incessantly  mounting,  rising  and  falling,  twist- 
ing and  hooking  on  to  the  grass,  to  the  bushes 
as  though  in  sportive  antics,  lengthening  out, 
and  hiding  away,  clouds  upon  clouds  flew 
by    .    .    .    they    were    for    ever   changing   and 

293 


V 


SMOKE 

stayed  still  the  same  in  their  monotonous, 
hurrying,  wearisome  sport !  Sometimes  the 
wind  changed,  the  line  bent  to  right  or  left, 
and  suddenly  the  whole  mass  vanished,  and  at 
once  reappeared  at  the  opposite  window  ;  then 
again  the  huge  tail  was  flung  out,  and  again  it 
veiled  Litvinov's  view  of  the  vast  plain  of  the 
Rhine.  He  gazed  and  gazed,  and  a  strange 
reverie  came  over  him  ...  He  was  alone  in  the 
compartment ;  there  was  no  one  to  disturb  him. 
'  Smoke,  smoke,'  he  repeated  several  times ;  and 
suddenly  it  all  seemed  as  smoke  to  him,  every- 
thing, his  own  life,  Russian  life — everything 
human,  especially  everything  Russian.  All 
smoke  and  steam,  he  thought ;  all  seems  for 
ever  changing,  on  all  sides  new  forms,  phan- 
toms flying  after  phantoms,  while  in  reality 
it  is  all  the  same  and  the  same  again  ;  every- 
thing hurrying,  flying  towards  something,  and 
everything  vanishing  without  a  trace,  attaining 
to  nothing ;  another  wind  blows,  and  all  is 
dashing  in  the  opposite  direction,  and  there 
again  the  same  untiring,  restless — and  useless 
gambols !  He  remembered  much  that  had 
taken  place  with  clamour  and  flourish  before 
his  eyes  in  the  last  few  years  ...  *  Smoke,'  he 
whispered*,  *  smoke ' ;  he  remembered  the  hot 
disputes,  the  wrangling,  the  clamour  at  Gubar- 
yov's,  and  in  other  sets  of  men,   of  high  and 

294 


SMOKE 

low  degree,  advanced  and  reactionist,  old  and 
young  ...  *  Smoke,'  he  repeated,  *  smoke  and 
steam  ' ;  he  remembered,  too,  the  fashionable 
picnic,  and  he  remembered  various  opinions 
and*  speeches  of  other  political  personages 
— even  all  Potugin's  sermonising  ...  *  Smoke, 
smoke,  nothing  but  smoke.'  And  what  of  his 
own  struggles  and  passions  and  agonies  and 
dreams  ?  He  could  only  reply  with  a  gesture 
of  despair. 

And  meanwhile  the  train  dashed  on  and 
on  ;  by  now  Rastadt,  Carlsruhe,  and  Bruchsal 
had  long  been  left  far  behind ;  the  moun- 
tains on  the  right  side  of  the  line  swerved 
aside,  retreated  into  the  distance,  then 
moved  up  again,  but  not  so  high,  and 
more  thinly  covered  with  trees.  .  .  .  The 
train  made  a  sharp  turn  .  .  .  and  there  was 
Heidelberg.  The  carriage  rolled  in  under  the 
cover  of  the  station  ;  there  was  the  shouting 
of  newspaper-boys,  selling  papers  of  all  sorts, 
even  Russian ;  passengers  began  bustling  in 
their  seats,  getting  out  on  to  the  platform,  but 
Litvinov  did  not  leave  his  corner,  and  still  sat 
on  with  downcast  head.  Suddenly  some  one 
called  him  by  name ;  he  raised  his  eyes ;  Bin- 
dasov's  ugly  phiz  was  thrust  in  at  the  window  ; 
and  behind  him — or  was  he  dreaming,  no,  it 
was  really  so — all   the  familiar   Baden    faces ; 

295 


SMOKE 

there  was  Madame  Suhantchikov,  there  was 
Voroshilov,  and  Bambaev  too  ;  they  all  rushed 
up  to  him,  while  Bindasov  bellowed  : 

'  But  where  's  Pishtchalkin  ?  We  were  ex- 
pecting him ;  but  it 's  all  the  same,  hop  out, 
and  we  '11  be  off  to  Gubaryov's.* 

'  Yes,  my  boy,  yes,  Gubaryov  's  expecting  us,' 
Bambaev  confirmed,  making  way  for  him,  '  hop 
out' 

Litvinov  would  have  flown  into  a  rage, 
but  for  a  dead  load  lying  on  his  heart.  He 
glanced  at  Bindasov  and  turned  away  without 
speaking. 

*  I  tell  you  Gubaryov 's  here,'  shrieked 
Madame  Suhantchikov,  her  eyes  fairly  starting 
out  of  her  head. 

Litvinov  did  not  stir  a  muscle. 

*  Come,  do  listen,  Litvinov,'  Bambaev  began 
at  last,  'there's  not  only  Gubaryov  here, 
there's  a  whole  phalanx  here  of  the  most 
splendid,  most  intellectual  young  fellows,  Rus- 
sians— and  all  studying  the  natural  sciences, 
all  of  the  noblest  convictions !  Really  you 
must  stop  here,  if  it's  only  for  them.  Here, 
for  instance,  there 's  a  certain  .  .  .  there,  I  've 
forgotten  his  surname,  but  he 's  a  genius ! 
simply ! ' 

*  Oh,  let  him  be,  let  him  be,  Rostislav  Ardali- 
onovitch,'    interposed    Madame   Suhantchikov, 

296  * 


SMOKE 

*  let  him  be !  You  see  what  sort  of  a  fellow  he 
is ;  and  all  his  family  are  the  same.  He  has 
an  aunt ;  at  first  she  struck  me  as  a  sensible 
woman,  but  the  day  before  yesterday  I  went  to 
see  her  here — she  had  only  just  before  gone  to 
Baden  and  was  back  here  again  before  you 
could  look  round — well,  I  went  to  see  her  ; 
began  questioning  her  .  .  Would  you  believe 
me,  I  couldn't  get  a  word  out  of  the  stuck-up 
thing.     Horrid  aristocrat ! ' 

Poor  Kapitolina  Markovna  an  aristocrat ! 
Could  she  ever  have  anticipated  such  a  humilia- 
tion? 

But  Litvinov  still  held  his  peace,  turned 
away,  and  pulled  his  cap  over  his  eyes.  The 
train  started  at  last. 

*  Well,  say  something  at  parting  at  least,  you 
stonyhearted  man  ! '  shouted  Bambaev,  *  this  is 
really  too  much  ! ' 

*  Rotten  milksop  ! '  yelled  Bindasov.  The 
carriages  were  moving  more  and  more  rapidly, 
and  he  could   vent   his  abuse  with  impunity. 

*  Niggardly  stick-in-the-mud.' 

Whether  Bindasov  invented  this  last  appella- 
tion on  the  spot,  or  whether  it  had  come  to 
him  second-hand,  it  apparently  gave  great 
satisfaction  to  two  of  the  noble  young  fellows 
studying  natural  science,  who  happened  to  be 
standing   by,   for   only   a    few    days    later    it 

297 


SMOKE 

appeared  in  the  Russian  periodical  sheet, 
published  at  that  time  at  Heidelberg  under  the 
title  :  A  tout  venant  je  crache  !  ^  or,  '  We  don't 
care  a  hang  for  anybody  ! ' 

But  Litvinov  repeated  again,  *  Smoke,  smoke, 
smoke  !  Here,'  he  thought,  '  in  Heidelberg  now 
are  over  a  hundred  Russian  students ;  they  're 
all  studying  chemistry,  physics,  physiology 
— they  won't  even  hear  of  anything  else  .  .  . 
but  in  five  or  six  years'  time  there  won't  be 
fifteen  at  the  lectures  by  the  same  celebrated 
professors ;  the  wind  will  change,  the  smoke 
will  be  blowing  ...  in  another  quarter  .  .  , 
smoke  .  .  .  smoke  .  .  . !  - 

Towards  nightfall  he  passed  by  Cassel.  With 
the  darkness  intolerable  anguish  pounced  like 
a  hawk  upon  him,  and  he  wept,  burying  him- 
self in  the  corner  of  the  carriage.  For  a  long 
time  his  tears  flowed,  not  easing  his  heart,  but 
torturing  him  with  a  sort  of  gnawing  bitter- 
ness ;  while  at  the  same  time,  in  one  of  the 
hotels  of  Cassel,  Tatyana  was  lying  in  bed 
feverishly  ill. 

Kapitolina  Markovna  was  sitting  beside  her. 
'  Tanya,'  she  was  saying,  '  for  God's  sake,  let 

^  A  historical  fact. 

^  Litvinov's  presentiments  came  true.  In  1866  there  were  in 
Heidelberg  thirteen  Russian  students  entered  for  the  summer, 
and  twelve  for  the  winter  session. 

298 


i 


i 


SMOKE 

me  send  a  telegram  to  Grigory  Mihalitch,  do 
let  me,  Tanya  ! ' 

*  No,  aunt,'  she  answered;  *  you  mustn't; 
don't  be  frightened,  give  me  some  water ;  it 
will  soon  pass.' 

And  a  week  later  she  did,  in  fact,  recover, 
and  the  two  friends  continued  their  journey. 


299 


XXVII 

Stopping  neither  at  Petersburg  nor  at  Moscow, 
Litvinov  went  back  to  his  estate.  He  was  dis- 
mayed when  he  saw  his  father ;  the  latter  was 
so  weak  and  failing.  The  old  man  rejoiced  to 
have  his  son,  as  far  as  a  man  can  rejoice  who  is 
just  at  the  close  of  life  ;  he  at  once  gave  over  to 
him  the  management  of  everything,  which  was 
in  great  disorder,  and  lingering  on  a  few  weeks 
longer,  he  departed  from  this  earthly  sphere. 
Litvinov  was  left  alone  in  his  ancient  little 
manor-house,  and  with  a  heavy  heart,  without 
hope,  without  zeal,  and  without  money,  he 
began  to  work  the  land.  Working  the  land  is 
a  cheerless  business,  as  many  know  too  well ; 
we  will  not  enlarge  on  how  distasteful  it 
seemed  to  Litvinov.  As  for  reforms  and 
innovations,  there  was,  of  course,  no  question 
even  of  them  ;  the  practical  application  of  the 
information  he  had  gathered  abroad  was  put  off 
for  an  indefinite  period  ;  poverty  forced  him  to 
make  shift  from  day  to  day,  to  consent  to  all 

300 


SMOKE 

sorts  of  compromises — both  material  and  moral. 
The  new  had  '  begun  ill/  the  old  had  lost  all 
power ;  ignorance  jostled  up  against  dishonesty ; 
the  whole  agrarian  organisation  was  shaken  and 
unstable  as  quagmire  bog,  and  only  one  great 
word,  '  freedom/  was  wafted  like  the  breath  of 
God  over  the  waters.  Patience  was  needed 
before  all  things,  and  a  patience  not  passive,  but 
active,  persistent,  not  without  tact  and  cunning 
at  times.  .  .  .  For  Litvinov,  in  his  frame  of 
mind,  it  was  doubly  hard.  He  had  but  little 
will  to  live  left  in  him.  .  .  .  Where  was  he  to 
get  the  will  to  labour  and  take  trouble  ? 

But  a  year  passed,  after  it  another  passed, 
the  third  was  beginning.  The  mighty  idea  was 
being  realised  by  degrees,  was  passing  into 
flesh  and  blood,  the  young  shoot  had  sprung 
up  from  the  scattered  seed,  and  its  foes,  both 
open  and  secret,  could  not  stamp  it  out  now. 
Litvinov  himself,  though  he  had  ended  by 
giving  up  the  greater  part  of  his  land  to  the 
peasants  on  the  half-profit  system,  that 's  to  say, 
by  returning  to  the  wretched  primitive  methods, 
had  yet  succeeded  in  doing  something  ;  he  had 
restored  the  factory,  set  up  a  tiny  farm  with 
five  free  hired  labourers — he  had  had  at  differ- 
ent times  fully  forty — and  had  paid  his  principal 
private  debts.  .  .  .  And  his  spirit  had  gained 
strength ;  he   had   begun    to   be   like   the   old 

301 


SMOKE 

Litvinov  again.  It 's  true,  a  deeply  buried 
melancholy  never  left  him,  and  he  was  too  quiet 
for  his  years ;  he  shut  himself  up  in  a  narrow 
circle  and  broke  off  all  his  old  connections  .  .  . 
but  the  deadly  indifference  had  passed,  and 
among  the  living  he  moved  and  acted  as  a  living 
man  again.  The  last  traces,  too,  had  vanished 
of  the  enchantment  in  which  he  had  been  held  ; 
all  that  had  passed  at  Baden  appeared  to  him 
dimly  as  in  a  dream.  .  .  .  And  Irina?  even  she 
had  paled  and  vanished  too,  and  Litvinov  only 
had  a  faint  sense  of  something  dangerous  behind 
the  mist  that  gradually  enfolded  her  image. 
Of  Tatyana  news  reached  him  from  time  to 
time  ;  he  knew  that  she  was  living  with  her  aunt 
on  her  estate,  a  hundred  and  sixty  miles  from 
him,  leading  a  quiet  life,  going  out  little,  and 
scarcely  receiving  any  guests — cheerful  and  well, 
however.  It  happened  on  one  fine  May  day, 
that  he  was  sitting  in  his  study,  listlessly  turning 
over  the  last  number  of  a  Petersburg  paper ; 
a  servant  came  to  announce  the  arrival  of  an 
old  uncle.  This  uncle  happened  to  be  a  cousin 
of  Kapitolina  Markovna  and  had  been  recently 
staying  with  her.  He  had  bought  an  estate  in 
Litvinov's  vicinity  and  was  on  his  way  thither. 
He  stayed  twenty-four  hours  with  his  nephew 
and  told  him  a  great  deal  about  Tatyana's 
manner  of  life.     The  next  day  after  his  depar- 

302 


SMOKE 

ture  Litvinov  sent  her  a  letter,  thje  first  since 
their  separation.  He  begged  for  permission  to 
renew  her  acquaintance,  at  least  by  correspond- 
ence, and  also  desired  to  learn  whether  he  must 
for  ever  give  up  all  idea  of  some  day  seeing  her 
again?  Not  without  emotion  he  awaited  the 
answer  .  .  .  the  answer  came  at  last.  Tatyana 
responded  cordially  to  his  overture.  *  If  you 
are  disposed  to  pay  us  a  visit,'  she  finished  up, 
'  we  hope  you  will  come ;  you  know  the  saying, 
"  even  the  sick  are  easier  together  than  apart." ' 
Kapitolina  Markovna  joined  in  sending  her 
regards.  Litvinov  was  as  happy  as  a  child  ;  it 
was  long  since  his  heart  had  beaten  with  such 
delight  over  anything.  He  felt  suddenly  light 
and  bright.  .  .  .  Just  as  when  the  sun  rises  and 
drives  away  the  darkness  of  night,  a  light  breeze 
flutters  with  the  sun's  rays  over  the  face  of  the 
reviving  earth.  All  that  day  Litvinov  kept 
smiling,  even  while  he  went  about  his  farm  and 
gave  his  orders.  He  at  once  began  making 
arrangements  for  the  journey,  and  a  fortnight 
later  he  was  on  his  way  to  Tatyana. 


303 


XXVIII 

He  drove  rather  slowly  by  cross  tracks,  without 
any  special  adventures  ;  only  once  the  tire  of 
a  hind  wheel  broke;  a  blacksmith  hammered  and 
welded  it,  swearing  both  at  the  tire  and  at  him- 
self, and  positively  flung  up  the  job  ;  luckily  it 
turned  out  that  among  us  one  can  travel  capitally 
even  with  a  tire  broken,  especially  on  the  '  soft,' 
that's  to  say  on  the  mud.  On  the  other 
hand,  Litvinov  did  come  upon  some  rather 
curious  chance-meetings.  At  one  place  he 
found  a  Board  of  Mediators  sitting,  and 
at  the  head  of  it  Pishtchalkin,  who  made 
on  him  the  impression  of  a  Solon  or  a  Solomon, 
such  lofty  wisdom  characterised  his  remarks, 
and  such  boundless  respect  was  shown  him 
both  by  landowners  and  peasants.  ...  In 
exterior,  too,  he  had  begun  to  resemble  a  sage 
of  antiquity  ;  his  hair  had  fallen  off  the  crown 
of  his  head,  and  his  full  face  had  completely 
set  in  a  sort  of  solemn  jelly  of  positively 
blatant  virtue.      He  expressed  his  pleasure  at 

304 


SMOKE 

Litvlnov's  arrival  in — '  if  I  may  make  bold  to 
use  so  ambitious  an  expression,  my  own  district/ 
and  altogether  seemed  fairly  overcome  by  an 
excess  of  excellent  intentions.  One  piece  of 
news  he  did,  however,  succeed  in  communi- 
cating, and  that  was  about  Voroshilov;  the 
hero  of  the  Golden  Board  had  re-entered 
military  service,  and  had  already  had  time  to 
deliver  a  lecture  to  the  officers  of  his  regiment 
on  Buddhism  or  Dynamism,  or  something  of  the 
sort — Pishtchalkin  could  not  quite  remember. 
At  the  next  station  it  was  a  long  while  before 
the  horses  were  in  readiness  for  Litvinov  ;  it 
was  early  dawn,  and  he  was  dozing  as  he  sat 
in  his  coach.  A  voice,  that  struck  him  as 
familiar,  waked  him  up  ;  he  opened  his  eyes.  .  .  . 
Heavens !  wasn't  it  Gubaryov  in  a  grey  pea- 
jacket  and  full  flapping  pyjamas  standing  on 
the  steps  of  the  posting  hut,  swearing?  .  .  . 
No,  it  wasn't  Mr.  Gubaryov.  .  .  .  But  what  a 
striking  resemblance  !  .  .  .  Only  this  worthy 
had  a  mouth  even  wider,  teeth  even  bigger,  the 
expression  of  his  dull  eyes  was  more  savage 
and  his  nose  coarser,  and  his  beard  thicker,  and 
the  whole  countenance  heavier  and  more  re- 
pulsive. 

'  Scou-oundrels,  scou-oundrels  ! '  he  voci- 
ferated slowly  and  viciously,  his  wolfish  mouth 
gaping   wide.      'Filthy    louts.  ...   Here    you 

305  u 


SMOKE 

have  .  .  .  vaunted  freedom  indeed  .  .  .  and  can't 
get  horses  .  .  .  scou-oundrels !  * 

'  Scou-oundrels,  scou-oundrels  ! '  thereupon 
came  the  sound  of  another  voice  from  within, 
and  at  the  same  moment  there  appeared  on  the 
steps — also  in  a  grey  smoking  pea-jacket  and 
pyjamas — actually,  unmistakably,  the  real  Gu- 
baryov  himself,  Stepan  Nikolaevitch  Gubaryov. 
*  Filthy  louts ! '  he  went  on  in  imitation  of  his 
brother  (it  turned  out  that  the  first  gentleman 
was  his  elder  brother,  the  man  of  the  old  school, 
famous  for  his  fists,  who  had  managed  his  estate). 
'  Flogging 's  what  they  want,  that 's  it ;  a  tap  or 
two  on  the  snout,  that 's  the  sort  of  freedom  for 
them.  .  .  .  Self-government  indeed.  ...  I  'd 
let  them  know  it.  .  .  .  But  where  is  that 
VM'sieu  Roston  ?  .  .  .  What  is  he  thinking  about? 
...  It 's  his  business,  the  lazy  scamp  ...  to 
see  we  're  not  put  to  inconvenience.' 

*  Well,  I  told  you,  brother,'  began  the  elder 
Gubaryov,  *  that  he  was  a  lazy  scamp,  no  good 
in  fact !  But  there,  for  the  sake  of  old  times, 
you  .  .  .  M'sieu  Roston,  M'sieu  Roston !  .  .  . 
Where  have  you  got  to  ? ' 

'  Roston  !  Roston  ! '  bawled  the  younger,  the 
great  Gubaryov.  ''  Give  a  good  call  for  him,  do 
brother  Dorimedont  Nikolaitch  ! ' 

*  Well,  I  am  shouting  for  him,  Stepan  Nikol- 
aitch !     M'sieu  Roston  ! ' 

306 


SMOKE 

'  Here  I  am,  here  I  am,  here  I  am !  *  was 
heard  a  hurried  voice,  and  round  the  corner  of 
the  hut  skipped  Bambaev. 

Litvinov  fairly  gasped.  On  the  unlucky 
enthusiast  a  shabby  braided  coat,  with  holes 
in  the  elbows,  dangled  ruefully ;  his  features 
had  not  exactly  changed,  but  they  looked 
pinched  and  drawn  together ;  his  over-anxious 
little  eyes  expressed  a  cringing  timorousness 
and  hungry  servility ;  but  his  dyed  whiskers 
stood  out  as  of  old  above  his  swollen  lips.  The 
Gubaryov  brothers  with  one  accord  promptly 
set  to  scolding  him  from  the  top  of  the  steps ; 
he  stopped,  facing  them  below,  in  the  mud,  and 
with  his  spine  curved  deprecatingly,  he  tried 
to  propitiate  them  with  a  little  nervous  smile, 
kneading  his  cap  in  his  red  fingers,  shifting 
from  one  foot  to  the  other,  and  muttering  that 
the  horses  would  be  here  directly.  .  .  .  But 
the  brothers  did  not  cease,  till  the  younger  at 
last  cast  his  eyes  upon  Litvinov.  Whether  he 
recognised  Litvinov,  or  whether  he  felt  ashamed 
before  a  stranger,  anyway  he  turned  abruptly  on 
his  heels  like  a  bear,  and  gnawing  his  beard, 
went  into  the  station  hut ;  his  brother  held 
his  tongue  at  once,  and  he  too,  turning  like  a 
bear,  followed  him  in.  The  great  Gubaryov, 
evidently,  had  not  lost  his  influence  even  in 
his  own  country. 

307 


SMOKE 

Bambaev  was  slowly  moving  after  the 
brothers.  .  .  .  Litvinov  called  him  by  his  name. 
He  looked  round,  lifted  up  his  head,  and  re- 
cognising Litvinov,  positively  flew  at  him  with 
outstretched  arms  ;  but  when  he  had  run  up  to 
the  carriage,  he  clutched  at  the  carriage  door, 
leaned  over  it,  and  began  sobbing  violently. 

'  There,  there,  Bambaev,'  protested  Litvinov, 
bending  over  him  and  patting  him  on  the 
shoulder. 

But  he  went  on  sobbing.  '  You  see  .  .  .  you 
see  ...  to  what  .  .  .'  he  muttered  brokenly. 

'  Bambaev  ! '  thundered  the  brothers  from  the 
hut. 

Bambaev  raised  his  head  and  hurriedly  wiped 
his  tears. 

'  Welcome,  dear  heart,'  he  whispered,  '  wel- 
come and  farewell !  .  .  .  You  hear,  they  are 
calling  me.' 

'  But  what  chance  brought  you  here  ? '  inquired 
Litvinov,  '  and  what  does  it  all  mean  ?  I 
thought  they  were  calling  a  Frenchman.  .  .  .' 

*  I  am  their  .  .  .  house-steward,  butler,'  an- 
swered Bambaev,  and  he  pointed  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  hut.  '  And  I  'm  turned  Frenchman 
for  a  joke.  What  could  I  do,  brother?  You 
see,  I  'd  nothing  to  eat,  I  'd  lost  my  last 
farthing,  and  so  one  's  forced  to  put  one's  head 
under  the  yoke.     One  can't  afford  to  be  proud.' 

308 


SMOKE 

*  But  has  he  been  long  in  Russia  ?  and  how 
did  he  part  from  his  comrades  ? ' 

*  Ah,  my  boy,  that 's  all  on  the  shelf  now. 
.  .  .  The  wind  's  changed,  you  see.  .  .  .  Madame 
Suhantchikov,  Matrona  Semyonovna,  he  simply 
kicked  out.     She  went  to  Portugal  in  her  grief 

'  To  Portugal  ?     How  absurd  ! ' 

*  Yes,  brother,  to  Portugal,  with  two  Matro- 
novtsys.' 

'  With  whom  ? ' 

'  The  Matronovtsys  ;  that 's  what  the  members 
of  her  party  are  called.' 

'Matrona  Semyonovna  has  a  party  of  her 
own  ?     And  is  it  a  numerous  one  ?  ' 

'  Well,  it  consists  of  precisely  those  two.  And 
he  will  soon  have  been  back  here  six  months. 
Others  have  got  into  difficulties,  but  he  was 
all  right.  He  lives  in  the  country  with  his 
brother,  and  you  should  just  hear  him  now.  .  .  .' 

*  Bambaev  ! ' 

*  Coming,  Stepan  Nikolaitch,  coming.  And 
you,  dear  old  chap,  are  flourishing,  enjoy- 
ing yourself !  Well,  thank  God  for  that ! 
Where  are  you  off  to  now  ?  .  .  .  There,  I  never 
thought,  I  never  guessed.  .  .  .  You  remember 
Baden  ?  Ah,  that  was  a  place  to  live  in  !  By 
the  way,  you  remember  Bindasov  too  ?  Only 
fancy,  he  's  dead.  He  turned  exciseman,  and 
was  in  a  row  in  a  public-house  ;  he  got  his  head 

309  U2 


SMOKE 

broken  with  a  billiard-cue.  Yes,  yes,  hard 
times  have  come  now  !  But  still  I  say,  Russia 
,  .  .  ah,  our  Russia  !  Only  look  at  those  two 
geese ;  why,  in  the  whole  of  Europe  there 's 
nothing  like  them !  The  genuine  Arzamass 
breed ! ' 

And  with  this  last  tribute  to  his  irrepressible 
desire  for  enthusiasm,  Bambaev  ran  off  to  the 
station  hut,  where  again,  seasoned  with  oppro- 
brious epithets,  his  name  was  shouted. 

Towards  the  close  of  the  same  day,  Litvinov 
was  nearly  reaching  Tatyana's  village.  The 
little  house  where  his  former  betrothed  lived 
stood  on  the  slope  of  a  hill,  above  a  small  river, 
in  the  midst  of  a  garden  recently  planted.  The 
house,  too,  was  new.  lately  built,  and  could  be 
seen  a  long  way  off  across  the  river  and  the 
open  country.  Litvinov  caught  sight  of  it  more 
than  a  mile  and  a  half  off,  with  its  sharp  gable, 
and  its  row  of  little  windows,  gleaming  red  in 
the  evening,'sun.  At  starting  from  the  last 
station  he  was  conscious  of  a  secret  agitation  ; 
now  he  was  in  a  tremor  simply — a  happy 
tremor,  not  unmixed  with  dread.  '  How  will 
they  meet  me  ? '  he  thought, '  how  shall  I  present 
myself?'  .  .  .  To  turn  off  his  thoughts  with 
something,  he  began  talking  with  his  driver,  a 
steady  peasant  with  a  grey  beard,  who  charged 
him,  however,  for  twenty-five  miles,  when  the 

310 


SMOKE 

distance  was  not  twenty.  He  asked  him,  did 
he  know  the  Shestov  ladies  ? 

*  The  Shestov  ladies  ?  To  be  sure  !  Kind- 
hearted  ladies,  and  no  doubt  about  it !  They 
doctor  us  too.  It 's  the  truth  I  'm  telling  you. 
Doctors  they  are  !  People  go  to  them  from  all 
about.  Yes,  indeed.  They  fairly  crawl  to  them. 
If  any  one,  take  an  example,  falls  sick,  or  cuts 
himself  or  anything,  he  goes  straight  to  them 
and  they  '11  give  him  a  lotion  directly,  or 
powders,  or  a  plaster,  and  it  '11  be  all  right,  it  '11 
do  good.  But  one  can't  show  one's  gratitude, 
we  won't  consent  to  that,  they  say  ;  it 's  not  for 
money.  They  've  set  up  a  school  too.  .  ,  .  Not 
but  what  that 's  a  foolish  business  ! ' 

While  the  driver  talked,  Litvinov  never  took 
his  eyes  off  the  house.  .  .  .  Out  came  a  woman 
in  white  on  to  the  balcony,  stood  a  little,  stood 
and  then  disappeared.  ...  *  Wasn't  it  she  ? ' 
His  heart  was  fairly  bounding  within  him. 
*  Quicker,  quicker ! '  he  shouted  lo  the  driver  ; 
the  latter  urged  on  the  horses.  A  few  instants 
more  .  .  .  and  the  carriage  rolled  in  through 
the  opened  gates.  .  .  .  And  on  the  steps  Kapi- 
tolina  Markovna  was  already  standing,  and 
beside  herself  with  joy,  was  clapping  her  hands 
crying,  '  I  heard  him,  I  knew  him  first !  It 's 
he  !  it 's  he  !  -  .  .1  knew  him  ! ' 

Litvinov  jumped  out  of  the    carriage,   with- 

311 


SMOKE 

out  giving  the  page  who  ran  up  time  to  open 
the  door,  and  hurriedly  embracing  Kapitolina 
Markovna,  dashed  into  the  house,  through  the 
hall,  into  the  dining-room.  .  .  .  Before  him,  all 
shamefaced,  stood  Tatyana.  She  glanced  at 
him  with  her  kind  caressing  eyes  (she  was  a 
little  thinner,  but  it  suited  her),  and  gave  him  her 
hand.  But  he  did  not  take  her  hand,  he  fell  on 
his  knees  before  her.  She  had  not  at  all  ex- 
pected this  and  did  not  know  what  to  say,  what 
to  do.  .  .  .  The  tears  started  into  her  eyes. 
She  was  frightened,  but  her  whole  face  beamed 
with  delight.  ...  *  Grigory  Mihalitch,  what  is 
this,  Grigory  Mihalitch  ? '  she  said  .  .  .  while  he 
still  kissed  the  hem  of  her  dress  .  .  .  and  with 
a  thrill  of  tenderness  he  recalled  that  at  Baden 
he  had  been  in  the  same  way  on  his  knees 
before  her.  .  .  .  But  then — and  now  ! 

'  Tanya  ! '  he  repeated,  *  Tanya  !  you  have 
forgiven  me,  Tanya  !  * 

*  Aunt,  aunt,  what  is  this  ? '  cried  Tatyana 
turning  to  Kapitolina  Markovna  as  she  came  in. 

'  Don't  hinder  him,  Tanya,'  answered  the  kind 
old  lady.     *  You  see  the  sinner  has  repented.' 

But  it  is  time  to  make  an  end ;  and  indeed 
there  is  nothing  to  add  ;  the  reader  can  guess 
the  rest  by  himself  .  .  .  But  what  of  Irina  ? 

She   is   still   as   charming,   in    spite    of   her 

.312 


SMOKE 

thirty  years  ;  young  men  out  of  number  fall  in 
love  with  her,  and  would  fall  in  love  with  her 
even  more,  if .  .  .  if .  .  . 

Reader,  would  you  care  to  pass  with  us  for  a 
few  instants  to  Petersburg  into  one  of  the  first 
houses  there  ?  Look  ;  before  you  is  a  spacious 
apartment,  we  will  not  say  richly — that  is  too 
low  an  expression — but  grandly,  imposingly, 
inspiringly  decorated.  Are  you  conscious  of  a 
certain  flutter  of  servility  ?  Know  that  you  have 
entered  a  temple,  a  temple  consecrated  to  the 
highest  propriety,  to  the  loftiest  philanthropy,  in 
a  word,  to  things  unearthly.  ...  A  kind  of 
mystic,  truly  mystic,  hush  enfolds  you.  The 
velvet  hangings  on  the  doors,  the  velvet  curtains 
on  the  window,  the  bloated,  spongy  rug  on  the 
floor,  everything  as  it  were  destined  and  fitted 
beforehand  for  subduing,  for  softening  all  coarse 
sounds  and  violent  sensations.  The  carefully 
hung  lamps  inspire  well-regulated  emotions ;  a 
discreet  fragrance  is  diffused  in  the  close  air ; 
even  the  samovar  on  the  table  hisses  in  a  re- 
strained and  modest  manner.  The  lady  of  the 
house,  an  important  personage  in  the  Petersburg 
world,  speaks  hardly  audibly  ;  she  always  speaks 
as  though  there  were  some  one  dangerously  ill, 
almost  dying  in  the  room  ;  the  other  ladies, 
following  her  example,  faintly  whisper ;  while 
her  sister,  pouring  out  tea,  moves  her  lips  so 

313 


SMOKE 

absolutely  without  sound  that  a  young  man  sit- 
ting before  her,  who  has  been  thrown  by  chance 
into  the  temple  of  decorum,  is  positively  at  a 
loss  to  know  what  she  wants  of  him,  while  she 
for  the  sixth  time  breathes  to  him, '  Voulez-vous 
une  tasse  de  the? '  In  the  corners  are  to  be  seen 
young,  good-looking  men;  their  glances  are 
brightly,  gently  ingratiating ;  unruffled  gentle- 
ness, tinged  with  obsequiousness,  is  apparent  in 
their  faces  ;  a  number  of  the  stars  and  crosses 
of  distinction  gleam  softly  on  their  breasts. 
The  conversation  is  always  gentle ;  it  turns  on 
religious  and  patriotic  topics,  the  Mystic  Drop, 
F.  N.  Glinka,  the  missions  in  the  East,  the 
monasteries  and  brotherhoods  in  White  Russia. 
At  times,  with  muffled  tread  over  the  soft 
carpets,  move  footmen  in  livery ;  their  huge 
calves,  cased  in  tight  silk  stockings,  shake 
noiselessly  at  every  step  ;  the  respectful  motion 
of  the  solid  muscles  only  augments  the  general 
impression  of  decorum,  of  solemnity,  of  sanctity. 
It  is  a  temple,  a  temple ! 

*  Have  you  seen  Madame  Ratmirov  to-day  ?  * 
one  great  lady  queries  softly. 

'  I  met  her  to-day  at  Lise's,'  the  hostess  answers 
with  her  ^olian  note.  *  I  feel  so  sorry  for  her. 
.  .  .  She  has  a  satirical  intellect  .  .  .  elle  na 
pas  lafoi^ 

*  Yes,  yes,'  repeats  the  great  lady  .  .  ,  '  that 

314 


SMOKE 

I  remember,  Piotr  Ivanitch  said  about  her, 
and  very  true  it  is,  quelle  a  .  ,  .  qu'elle  a  an 
ironical  intellect.' 

*  Elle  na  pas  la  foil  the  hostess's  voice  ex- 
haled like  the  smoke  of  incense, — 'Cest  une  dme 
egaree.     She  has  an  ironical  mind.' 

And  that  is  why  the  young  men  are  not 
all  without  exception  in  love  with  Irina.  .  .  . 
They  are  afraid  of  her  .  .  .  afraid  of  her 
*  ironical  intellect.'  That  is  the  current  phrase 
about  her ;  in  it,  as  in  every  phrase,  there  is  a 
grain  of  truth.  And  not  only  the  young  men 
are  afraid  of  her ;  she  is  feared  by  grown  men 
too,  and  by  men  in  high  places,  and  even  by 
the  grandest  personages.  No  one  can  so  truly 
and  artfully  scent  out  the  ridiculous  or  petty 
side  of  a  character,  no  one  else  has  the  gift  of 
stamping  it  mercilessly  with  the  never-forgotten 
word.  .  .  .  And  the  sting  of  that  word  is  all  the 
sharper  that  it  comes  from  lovely,  sweetly  fra- 
grant lips.  ...  It 's  hard  to  say  what  passes  in 
that  soul ;  but  in  the  crowd  of  her  adorers 
rumour  does  not  recognise  in  any  one  the  posi- 
tion of  a  favoured  suitor. 

Irina's  husband  is  moving  rapidly  along  the 
path  which  among  the  French  is  called  the 
path  of  distinction.  The  stout  general  has  shot 
past  him  ;  the  condescending  one  is  left  behind. 

315 


SMOKE 

And  in  the  same  town  in  which  Irina  lives,  lives 
also  our  friend  Sozont  Potugin ;  he  rarely  sees 
her,  and  she  has  no  special  necessity  to  keep  up 
any  connection  with  him.  .  .  .  The  little  girl 
who  was  committed  to  his  care  died  not  long 
aeo. 


THE  END 


Printed  by  T.  and  A.  Constable,  Printers  to  His  Majesty, 
at  the  Edinburgh  University  Press 


14  DAY  USE 

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